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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 





















































































































































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. 



































































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» 




























THE STORY OF JACK 


BY J. HORACE LYTLE 








































































Jack and His Master 



THE STORY OF 
JACK 

A Tale of the North 


And Other Fascinating 
Dog Stories 



y BY 

J. HORACE LYTLE 


THE PETTI BONE-McLEAN CO. 


PUBLISHERS 

DAYTON, OHIO 


Copyright, 1920, By 
J. Horace Lytle 



©Cl. A 5 70 3 68 


DEDICATION 


This little hook is affectionately dedicated to 
MY BOY 

in the hope that when he reads it his apprecia- 
tion of , and love for, man's truest friend, 
the DOG, may he enhanced, and that 
he may have a correct and true 
realization of what a dog's 
faith and friendship 
can and should, 
and usually does, 
mean. 


J. H. L. 








. 










































Contents 


Page 


The Story of Jack 15 

(An Airedale Terrier in Alaska) 

“Pal” 49 

(The story of how a dog earned a real home) 

A Pioneer Dog 65 

(A thoroughbred Collie of years ago) 

Old Frank’s Last Point 95 

(The Story of a Gordon Setter) 

Sandy’s Golf Dog 117 

(A Clumber Spaniel wins the game) 

How I Bought Sport 139 

(The “wolf” dog becomes my property) 

Jim’s Hound 153 

(The hound that was — and wasn’t) 




































































Illustrations 


PAGE 

Frontispiece 4 

“Hey!” he cried, “d’you know who’s cornin’?”. 17 

A Crowd of Regulars 19 

Perry licked them three Mosiertown guys all by 

hisself 20 

Perry arrived home true to schedule 21 

The Referee 22 

What’s the purse you’re fightin’ for? 24 

That crazy lookin’, shagly-haired pup 26 

Thing he liked best was batter cakes an’ syrup . . 28 

I broke Jack’s hold 30 

I used Jack in with ’em as wheel dog 32 

One of the meanest malamutes y’ever seen 34 

H’rrah for Jack 40 

After workin’ over him a bit 41 

He jumped at me — straight for the throat 42 

I emptied every cartridge in the automatic .... 44 

I picked Jack up an’ carried him home 45 

Jack’s lyin’ up back of Nome now 46 

Pal, unaided, dragged the boy safely out on the 

beach 59 

An Indian appeared in the underbrush 82 

He gently laid the dog’s head in her lap 90 

He seemed to want to keep close to the fire. . . . 109 

He had stuck to that point all afternoon 113 

Bruce 117 

And he was standing on point 135 

Gordon looked as though he were riding Sport 

horseback. But he was still wrong end to 147 
The hound turned and seemed to be laughing 

at him 161 

[11] 


V 
























. 











































THE STORY OF JACK 




Coon’s Corners 


I 

THE STORY OF JACK 

J OE SHEPARD dodged into the big, 
dimly lighted entrance of “Doc” Sul- 
livan’s livery stable and burst into the 
stuffy office, stuffier still with tobacco smoke, 
dog- talk and the “regulars” that congregated 
there nightly. 

“Hey!” he cried, “d’you know who’s 
cornin’?” 

“Who?” 

“Perry Crooks!”, exclaimed Joe. 

“He is!— When?” 

“Well, who’s this here Perry Crooks?” 
drawled Jim Scanlon. 

“Who’s Perry Crooks! You don’t know 
[ 15 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


who Perry Crooks is!” Joe was justly aston- 
ished at Jim’s question. 

“I reckon y’ve hit ’er right, Joe — or I 
wouldn’t have asked.” 

“ Jim’s only been here in Coon’s Corners 
goin’ on four years, Joe — an’ it must be all o’ 
nigh on to six since Perry left. Still I do al- 
low it seems as if Jim ought to have heard tell 
o’ Perry many a time in them four years. 
Perry, Jim, was the best dog fighter we ever 
had in these parts. An’ his dogs likewise was 
the best. Mx^hty seldom Perry ever lost a 
fight. He could pick the cornin’ winner out of 
a litter o’ pups most every time. An’ Perry 
knew how to handle ’em, too. He was the 
daddy of us all.” It was “Doc” Sullivan 
who spoke. 

“ ’Member the time, Lem,” continued 
“Doc,” turning to Lem Zengle, “when Perry 
licked them three Mosiertown guys all by his 
self when he caught ’em rubbin’ red pepper 
wash on their dog between scratches?” 

“Sure do remember, Doc, and alius will. 
Perry was some scrapper hisself. His dogs 
didn’t have nothin’ on him when it come to 
fightin’. Never seen ’im whipped; an’ I bet 
he ain’t been up there’n Alaske, neither. 

[ 16 ] 





THE STORY OF JACK 


Fight! — why, gol durn it, Perry wasn’t ’fraid 
o’ nothin’ that ever walked.” 

“This here Perry must be some man” 
drawled Jim Scanlon again. 

“An’ that he was!” spoke up an en- 
thusiastic member of the crowd. 

Coon’s Corners is a little town of about 
eight hundred people which may not be 
found on the map, in a still rather undeveloped 
section of Ohio. The chief interests in the town 
were the bottling works and dog fighting — the 
latter probably predominating. This same 
crowd of “regulars” could be found assembled 
almost any evening at “Doc” Sullivan’s stable, 
where most of the dog fights were staged 
when the second floor of the bottling works 
was not available. 

“How soon’ll Perry be gettin’ here, Joe?” 
inquired Frank Walters. “Let’s see, to-day’s 
the first of September.” 

“Letter says he’ll land in here two weeks 
from to-day,” answered Joe. 

“Well,” resumed Frank, “it’s still kinda 
warm to start the fall festiv’ties, but if 
Perry’s cornin’ home, reckon ther’s nothin’ else 
to do. Ther’ll be purty near two weeks yet, an’ 
it may turn a cool spell, so’s the dogs could 
[ 18 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 



A Crowd of Regulars 


stand it right well. Wouldn’t do not to wel- 
come Perry home in regular style. Boys, let’s 
pull off a real bout fer ol’ time’s sake.” 

“Sure, Mike! Bet yer life!” the others 
agreed. 

So the next day there was arranged 
such a dog fight as would be a suitable cele- 
bration for Perry’s home coming. What was 
considered the best living Coon’s Corners dog 
was matched against the best that Beaver- 
town, six miles distant, could furnish. The 
stake was fifty dollars a side. Details were 
closed in Beavertown after it was pointed out 
that the short notice for training would be 
equally fair to both animals, and that a cool 
spell was predicted within the next few days. 

All was in readiness for Perry’s arrival. 
It was to be fittingly celebrated in the way 
that Coon’s Corners knew he would most 
[19] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


enjoy. The fight was to take place at “Doc” 
Sullivan’s. All Coon’s Corners was alive with 
excitement — which was not lessened by the 
rivalry of long standing between the two 
towns. Beavertown, as a rule, had been get- 
ting a little the better end of it since Perry had 
been away, which intensified the present in- 
terest. 

And then the day came, and Perry arrived 
home true to schedule. It had been agreed 
that the fight should be 
kept as a complete sur- 
prise, so he learned noth- 
ing during the day of the 
great treat which was 
coming in the evening. 

About seven o’clock 



Perry licked them three Mosiertown guys all by hisself 
[201 


THE STORY OF JACK 



Perry arrived home true to schedule 


that night, Joe Shepard called for Perry and 
asked him if he wouldn’t like to stroll around 
to “Doc’s” and see some of the gang he had 
not met during the day. 

“Sure,” was the answer; and they were off. 
Everything was in readiness when the guest 
of honor arrived. Just a few preliminaries 
remained and the “go” would be in full swing. 
The dogs had not yet been brought in ; but the 
referee was standing in the pit and ready 
to flip the coin to decided which dog should 
make the first “scratch.” 

Then the strange thing happened. Perry 
stepped to the edge of the pit and faced the 
friends he had left six years before. 

“Boys,” he asked, “what’s the purse y’re 
fightin’ for?” 

“Fifty dollars,” several answered at once. 

“But we’ll raise it to a hundred if you 

[ 21 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


want to make it more, Perry,” called one of 
the followers of the Beavertown dog. 

But Perry was already speaking again: 
1 'Ain’t it most too early yet to start the game, 
boys? We never useta pit the dogs ’fore ’long 
late in October; an’ most gener’ly not ’fore 
early November. 
It’s mighty bad to 
send ’em the real 
route while it’s 
still a bit warm.” 

“ Them’s true 
words, Perry,” 
broke in “Doc” 
Sullivan, “but this 
here little bout was 
arranged to sorta 
show you the boys 
ain’t forgot ol’ times — y’see, we couldn’t just 
pick the weather. But she’s turned purty cool 
these few days — most equal to November. An’ 
we’ve been shapin’ them dogs up hard for two 
weeks, so’s they’re both fit as fiddles. What’s 
the dope, Perry? Hadn’t we better let 
Rooney’s dog git started masticatin’ this here 
spec’ min they’ve brought over from Beaver- 
town?” 



[ 22 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


"Boys,” Perry continued, "I’d like leave to 
take just a few minutes ’fore this here fracas 
an’ tell you all ’bout a dog fight I seen up in 
Alaska. ’Twas a good one, an’ she’s worth 
hearin’. Are you fellas agreed I may tell it? 
Go on an’ give me a risin’ vote — an’ all of you 
rise — ’fore either of them terriers makes the 
first 'scratch’ tonight.” 

"Sure, but let’s have the fight first, Perry.” 
And this suggestion seemed to find general 
approval. 

"No — I don’t think I’ll want to tell it later 
on,” Perry answered quite positively. 

Joe Shepard got to his feet. 

"Bein’ as this here’s Perry’s fight anyhow 
— a sorta home-cornin’ welcome from us all 
— kinda seems to me like grantin’ the wish of 
the best ol’ fightin’ dog man we ever had 
round these parts is purty much in order, an’ 
we can’t do mor’n leave Perry have the floor 
right now like he asks for. The dogs ain’t 
been brought in yet nohow. So what’s the 
harm? I say let’s every man agree.” 

"Well, this is onusual doin’s,” growled big 
Joe Black of Beavertown. "I ain’t got all 
night to listen to no stories. I come over to see 
a dog fight — not hear ’bout none. Pve got 
[23] 



What’s the purse you’re fightin’ for? 


THE STORY OF JACK 


money on it, an’ I’m agoin’ to see her start 
now. Git ’em goin’, Red. Toss up for first 
scratch.” 

Thus encouraged, Beavertown arose al- 
most to a man to support Joe Black’s demands. 
Such a crowd as this, raised on fights of one 
sort or another, is never to be trusted or 
tampered with. 

But Perry stood his ground — and thun- 
dered at the crowd: “I asked you to hear 
me. Now y’ve got to — d’you hear that! You 
all know me, every one of you. No monkey 
business goes. The first man to butt in will 
have to take the consequences. They act 
first, an’ don’t do their thinkin’ till afterwards 
up in the gold country. D’you get me?” 

They evidently “got” him. It was the same 
old Perry — but with multiplied determina- 
tion. Even Joe Black kept his seat. 

And Perry began his story, still standing 
at the edge of the pit: 

“You’ll all recollect that before pullin’ 
stakes for Alaska I sold all my pit stock. But 
you may not mind about that crazy lookin’, 
shagly haired pup that was sent me for a 
present just shortly ’fore I left these parts. 

[25] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


Still, some of you may remember him at that. 
’Member what an onery lookin’ little runt he 
was? Most of us wondered what he was — 
though they’d said he was an Airedale. I 
couldn’t make out what he was ever goin’ to 
be good for. But I’d kinda took a fancy to 



That crazy lookin, shagly haired pup that was 
sent me for a present 


the little cuss, though I was ashamed to 
admit it even to you fellas. An’ this pup was 
the only dog I took away from here with me 
when I got the gold fever. 

“ Don’t know why I didn’t sell him — or 
give him away, if any one would have took 
[26] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


him. Don’t know why, no mor’n I know why 
I ever took him in the beginnin’ when he was 
give to me. Reckon the reason I took him 
North was on account of him havin’ shagly 
hair, an’ I thought he’d amount to somethin’, 
mebbe for to help pullin’ sledges, or some way 
or other up in the Klondike country. Well, 
anyhow, I took him. I’d heard the price of 
dogs was high up there. Mebbe I could use 
him somehow, I figgered. 

“Well, one way Jack was different from 
most dogs was in his eatin’. Thing he liked 
best was batter cakes an’ syrup — but they 
must have the syrup, or he wouldn’t touch ’em. 
An’ they must be served him on a plate! — or 
he wouldn’t touch ’em neither. Contrariest 
dog y’ever seen, in some ways. An’ I’ll be 
doggoned if I didn’t humor him! Sure ’nough 
he was the tenderest raised dog I ever seen in 
all my born days. An’ he just wouldn’t leave 
me a minute — alius under my feet, or some- 
thin’. Made the biggest fuss over me y’ever 
seen. An’ along he went with me to Alaska.” 

“ ’Magine Perry feedin’ a dog batter 
cakes!” exclaimed Frank Walters. 

“Yes, ’twas just like I’m tellin’ you,” an- 
swered Perry. “The way we went was by 
[ 27 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


boat from Seattle, an’ on up to Dyea an’ 
Skagway. We wintered in Skagway, waitin' 
for the weather to open up so we could get on 
to Nome. Built our boats on Lake Bennett 



an' waited for the ice to go out, before we 
could get down to Dawson, an’ from there 
down the river an' out to St. Michael an’ over 
to Nome. It’s a long, hard trip — that one is. 

[ 28 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 

“In that winter, while we waited in Skag- 
way, Jack growed up. Got pretty big, too. 
But not so big as them huskies an’ malamutes. 
He never seemed to want trouble, though — 
so I figgered he didn’t have any too much sand. 
But he was a cockey little cuss at that, an’ 
his little old tail was alius stuck up straight 
over his back — an’ I never seen him curl it in. 
His legs got ’specially strong — an’ his front 
ones was straight as a rifle barrel. 

“Well, one day in Skagway a cur jumped 
him,” continued Perry, “an’ at first the cur 
was gettin’ kinda the best of it. But purty 
soon Jack begun to put up some exhibition. 
Kept cornin’ stronger all the time. He sure 
did surprise me. All at once, just when the 
Alaska dog was strainin’ to get a throat hold, 
Jack kinda reached up an’ closed down over 
his whole jaw. Then he closed his eyes an’ 
sure did rip her up some!” 

“H’rrah for Jack!” shouted Joe Shepard. 
The crowd by this time was beginning to show 
many signs of quite general interest. They 
had almost forgotten, for the time being, the 
real event of the evening. 

“The cur shook an’ shook, but Jack hung 
on an’ liked to shake the daylights out of him. 

[ 29 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


It sure was some tough hold he had. The cur 
couldn’t even holler. But he certainly did 
thrash ’round considerable. ’Twas Jack’s first 
fight — but what they’d been tellin’ me about 



I broke Jack’s hold 

Airedales was showin’ up in him. Still, never 
havin’ had no experience exceptin’ with real 
pit dogs, I couldn’t believe he’d stick dead 
game.” 

Even the Beavertown men were beginning 
really to enthuse over the story by this time. 
[30] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


'Then some guy come along an’ allowed I 
better take my dog off. I give him the laugh, 
till he started to draw a gun — then I told him 
I’d part ’em. Didn’t want to take no chances 
on Jack’s gettin’ hurt — an’ the cur was al- 
ready cowed bad enough anyhow to last him 
for quite a spell. So I hollered to the fellow 
to hold on a minute — an’ I broke Jack’s hold. 
An’ ’twas a sight harder to break than I’d 
have figgered it would be.” 

"Who’d ever thought it of that pup!” ex- 
claimed Roy Caton. "I’ll be danged if I 
would!” 

"Well, after that, ’twas common talk 
’round Skagway about that fight. Every day 
or so some guy with a huskie or malamute 
would come ’round an’ offer to bet most any 
kind of money his dog could lick mine. All of 
which made me powerful sorry that I hadn’t 
took old Butch along with me — but I wouldn’t 
let Jack have no regular go with them big 
North dogs. They’re rough fighters, them 
fellas, an’ I wouldn’t consider none of them 
chances to pit my pet — for that’s just what 
he was.” 

"Let ’em bluff you, Perry!” cried Lem 
Zengle. But he got no further — 

[31] 



I used Jack in with ’em as wheel dog 


THE STORY OF JACK 


“You just wait!" answered Perry. “In the 
Spring I pulled stakes for Nome — an’ that’s 
when Jack come in useful. I bought five mala- 
mutes to pull the sledge up into the gold coun- 
try — an’ used Jack in with ’em as the wheel 
dog, directly in front of the sledge. Only 
place I’d have dared put him, or them five 
critters would have ate him alive. But tacked 
on behind ’em at the tail end of the team it 
worked fine, an’ he mor’n pulled his share. 
Well, as I’ve said, he was strong in the legs — 
an’ he’d do anythin’ for me. Liked to pull his- 
self to pieces tryin’ to please me. But it did 
him good. ’Stead of gettin’ weak, he got 
stronger. If he’d only been bigger, I believe 
he’d have licked any two of them malamutes 
put together — but as it was it give me the 
devil’s own time to keep ’em off him. Couldn’t 
leave him alone for a minute — never. An’ at 
night had to keep them other five rascals tied 
up tight. But before we got to Nome, I 
wouldn’t have give Jack for the ten best sledge 
dogs in all the North.” 

“Trust you, Perry, to make a dog good for 
somethin’,” called someone in the crowd. The 
keen interest of the listeners — which had been 
[ 33 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


won long since — was increasing more and more 
as the story proceeded. 

“One day, while we was still in Nome, there 
come up from Skagway one Jim Tillman — an* 
with him he brought along the story of that 
fight of Jack's back in Skagway. An’ then all 
Nome begun coaxin’ for a dog fight. There 



One of the meanest malamutes y’ever seen 


was even more challenges than what I’d got at 
Skagway.” 

“Why didn’t y’send back home, Perry, for 
some live stock as could bring them guys down 
a peg or two! Why didn’t y’send for Butch? 
What did y’do, Perry? Didn’t leave ’em git 
the laugh on you up there, did you?” The man 
who spoke voiced a sentiment that was unani- 
mous, as was evidenced keenly by the crowd. 

“No!” cried Perry. “Boys, I took ’em up 
[ 34 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 

on one of them challenges — an’ took on the 
best fightin’ dog in Nome. Just figgered I’d 
do her right while I was at it. But cut out 
buttin’ in, you guys, an’ leave me hurry up an’ 
git done tellin’ this. I ain’t in the habit of 
talkin’ so much. 

“The fight was to be for five hundred dol- 
lars — money’s big up in that country. Jack 
was to fight one of the meanest malamutes 
y’ever seen. Not a growed up man or woman 
there but had some kind of bet placed. An’ 
that’s all they talked about in Nome every 
time there was a crowd together. Course the 
odds favored the malamute about five to one. 
I had my five hundred even — out of considera- 
tion for J ack. Was willin’ to lose that much on 
him. Fact is, boys, after that fracas at Skag- 
way, I was kinda curious myself to see what 
he’d do in a pinch. He sure was an unusual 
dog — had me beat tryin’ to figger him out, in 
lots of ways. But I’d made up my mind that’d 
be the last fight I’d ever pit him, no matter 
what way it come out. Knew he’d have to 
stand a lot of gaff even if he won — an’ I didn’t 
count on him much to win. For one thing, he 
was too much lighter. 

“Boys, that was the greatest battle you 
[ 35 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


ever seen. The trip up from Skagway an* 
down the river had made Jack strong as an ox 
in the legs. An’ in spite of givin’ away so much 
weight, that great dog of mine was winnin’. 
D’you hear me — I tell you he was winnin’! 
He was every bit as quick as the malamute — 
an’ a heap sight cleverer. Seemed to figger 
ahead from one hold to the next. An’ his 
teeth ripped an’ tore full equal to the mala- 
mute’s — an’ that’s a North dog’s long suit, 
which they get from bein’ purty near wolves, 
I reckon. 

“One ear-hold Jack got like to ruined the 
other dog — most tore it clean off complete. 
Jack kept all four legs squared solid under him, 
an’ spread wide apart — an’ every little bit he’d 
yank down with a new hold that’d delight the 
best of you. Yes, he sure was makin’ some 
fight — one I’d have gone a good many miles 
to see. I wouldn’t have believed any dog 
could do it, givin’ away all the [weight he 
did.” 

Perry’s own excitement in the telling 
showed how he was himself completely ab- 
sorbed by the relating of the details of that 
stirring event. 

“Thing that surprised me most of all, boys, 
[ 36 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 

was the way Jack fought — just like them 
huskies an’ malamutes all fight, cuttin’ a dog 
all to pieces, tearin’, rippin’ an’ slashin’, to 
kill. So ’twas a battle where the style of 
fightin’ of both dogs was purty nigh the same 
— only Jack was just a bit quicker’n even the 
malamute was. But the malamute had a big 
advantage in the weight. 

"Ain’t none of you guys ever seen such a 
fight as that!” shouted Perry. "The pit dogs 
’round here grab a hold — an’ just hang on. 
They may do a lot of damage — an’ then again 
sometimes they don’t. Depends on where the 
hold is. But that ain’t the way with Airedales 
or them Alaska brutes. They grab one hold 
quick, an’ just naturally rip a dog open in a 
second. Then they grab a new hold and rip 
him again. Purty quick they’ll have him tore 
all to pieces — ain’t nothin’ left of him. Aire- 
dales’ll yank a dog open, an’ clean finish him 
— while a pit bull might be sleepin’ on some 
undangerous hold somewheres. You all might 
doubt them words — I did till I seen with my 
own eyes. But I tell you that dog Jack of 
mine could finish both them critters you got 
here tonight, in the same pit, in about twenty 
minute*.” 


[ 37 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 

“Yes he could! Don’t come none of that 
on us, Perry.” The crowd disapproved. 

“Well, he could, now — an’ I don’t care a 
rap if you believe me or not. But speakin’ 
about this here fight up at Nome — excuse me 
for gettin’ kinda off the subject. I was sayin’ 
’twas about an even draw, with Jack really 
winnin’ just a little. An’ I’ve told you about 
Jack havin’ some points on the malamute, an’ 
the malamute havin’ the best of Jack on 
weight. 

“Well, before I hardly realized it, that 
weight mighty near beat Jack. I kinda noticed 
him beginnin’ to tire first, from havin’ to 
stack up* against so much weight. Then for 
the first time he took his eyes off the mala- 
mute — just for a second — to look for me. He 
wasn’t scared — not a mite. Reckon he just 
wanted to see where I was. But it come purty 
close to bein’ his finish. 

“The malamute was powerful quick an’ 
clever too — most equal to Jack. Best scrapper 
I ever seen, exceptin’ Jack. An’ just the 
second Jack took that peek for me — the mala- 
mute grabbed him by the shoulder an’ laid him 
open horrible — an’ switchin’ quick to a new 
[38] 


THE STORY OF JACK 

hold — well, ’twas mighty near the end of my 
Jack, that’s all. 

“Jack took such a terrible knifin’ that I 
don’t like to be even tellin’ you about it now. 
Funny thing to me was, though, that he didn’t 
seem to be tryin’ to protect hisself, or strainin’ 
to git loose. First I thought he’d quit cold. 
But he didn’t holler none. Boys, he was just 
restin’ — an’ outwittin’ the other dog. Fightin’ 
was cornin’ to him natural, out of his ancestors, 
I reckon. Wasn’t no use wastin’ his strength 
while there wasn’t no chance. But what got 
me was, I couldn’t see as he was even lookin’ 
for no chance, an’ he was gettin’ a dangerous 
lashin’. He fooled me, though, an’ he fooled 
the malamute, too! 

“That critter figgered like I did — that 
Jack was about done — an’ he got kinda over 
anxious to finish him, an’ he laid hisself open, 
an’ Jack got him — then! Got his jug’lar, too! 

“My Airedale had won! An’ the fight was 
over. Boys, my dog won me five hundred dol- 
lars — you understand! The malamute was 
as dead a dog as you’ll ever see. Jack had 
worked fast on the jug’lar — just like all them 
dogs do up North. Faster’n pit bulls ever 
[39] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


work. Airedales is like them northern wolf 
dogs in lots of ways — exceptin’ Airedales ain't 
never treacherous , like they are.” 

“H’rrah for Jack!” The crowd shouted 
and cheered to the echo. Their uncontrollable 
enthusiasm broke forth from every fibre of 
their rough beings. Hats were thrown wildly 
into the air, feet were stamped, they pounded 



one another on the back. The old hero of 
Coon’s Corners had made good in Alaska — 
had shown them a thing or two about fighting 
dogs — as his friends had known all along he 
would do. But Perry was not through with 
his story — and they finally became quiet again 
and listened for the rest, as he went on. 

“I went over to Jack, lyin’ there in the pit. 
He wasn’t quite able to hardly stand up yet, 
he was so awful cut up an’ all in. But after 
[40] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


workin’ over him a bit, I seen he’d come out of 
it. The sledgin’ work had made him tough an’ 
hard to kill. I worked over him quite a bit 
before I got him in shape to start home. But 
we finally did git started — me goin’ slow, an’ 
Jack just kinda wobblin’ along behind. 


After workin’ over him a bit, I seen he’d come out of it 


“ ’Twas rather dark when we left the pit, 
an’ we was just kinda pickin’ our way down 
the street slower’n a funeral. In a little bit 
along come a big huskie, an’ I seen he kinda 
had his eye set for Jack. Beats all how them 
[ 41 ] 




He jumped at me — straight for the throat 


THE STORY OF JACK 

North dogs’ll alius pick on a dog that’s down 
or badly cut up. 

“When this huskie come closer, I seen for 
sure what he’s up to, an’ I hollers: ‘Git out 
of here,’ an’ kicks out at him. Quicker’n a 
wink he jumped at me — straight for the 
throat. I dodged him just barely in time. 
When he wheeled an’ come back at me, he’d 
plumb forgot Jack. An’ that’s right when 
Jack nailed him — an’ connected. Before I 
could do a thing Jack had like to chewed one 
of the huskie’ s legs off, an’ here I was now 
with another fight on!” 

Perry’s listeners were breathless — Coon’s 
Corners and Beavertown alike. Every ear was 
strained to miss not a word — and no word 
was uttered by the crowd. 

“I knowed Jack couldn’t last long — weak 
as he was. But I couldn’t shoot for fear of 
hittin’ him instead of the huskie. The fight 
didn’t last long, though, before somethin’ hap- 
pened — Jack bein’ too weak already to stand 
the pace. The huskie, bein’ strong an’ fresh, 
soon thro wed him over an’ reached for the jug’- 
lar — an’ got there. Right then, quicker’n a 
wink, I emptied every cartridge in the auto- 
matic ! 


143 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


“All four pieces of the lead found the 
huskie. But them dogs works faster’n lightin’ 
when they finds the vein — an' he must have 
finished Jack just about the time I begun 
shootin’.” 



I emptied every cartridge in the automatic 


per. “He'd given his life for mine when that 
huskie jumped me. Never even stopped to 
consider nothin' — an’ he was so weak then 
he could hardly stand. An ’ all from a fight 
T d put him in. r 44 1 


THE STORY OF JACK 


1 'Jack’s lyin’ up back of Nome now, boys, 
in a regular grave with a regular headstone 
better’ n any other in all that country — even 
over humans. An’ from that day to now I 
ain’t never willfully fought a dog of mine — 



I picked Jack up an’ carried him home 


an’ never will again. Wouldn’t own no dog 
as couldn’t fight — but none of mine’ll ever 
have to fight again just for money. I’ve seen 
enough of pit dog fights to last me. 

[ 45 ] 


THE STORY OF JACK 


“An’ now, boys, I’m done. I do appreciate 
your home-cornin’ welcome — an’ I’m sorry if 
I’ve spoilt the sport — but if Coon’s Corners 
will give up this little fight now in favor of 
Beavertown, why, I’ll pay the fifty dollars — 
an’ here it is!” But Perry smiled, as he added: 
“I guess it’d be the first of my money Beaver- 
town ever got.” 



[ 46 ] 


“PAL” 






V 

. 




































































































































































































II. 


“PAL” 

I AM going to tell now for the first time the 
story of Pal. It was brought to my mind 
again to-day by seeing in this morning's 
paper an item featuring a dog’s efforts to save 
a drowning boy. To tell you Pal’s story, 
however, I must take you back about a year 
earlier than the actual incident. 

John Moulton had stopped off and spent 
the morning looking over the dogs at La Rue. 
About noon he said: “Well, I guess I’ll take 
this one” — and selected Palisade, the prize 
puppy of the kennel, and answering to the 
contraction of Pal. The little fellow — he was 
just four months old then — was loaded into a 
large, comfortable double basket and Mr. 
Moulton took the noon train with him. 

On the way to the station he said: “I 
don’t know what Mrs. Moulton will think of 
my bringing home a dog to raise. She doesn’t 
care for them. But I’ve determined to get 
one for my boy.” 


[49] 


PAL 


‘ ‘She’ll become as much attached to Pal 
as any of you, in time,” I ventured to predict 
so as to reassure him. 

That ride on the train was a strange, new 
experience for Pal. It was the first time he 
had ever been away from home. The train 
rumbled and jolted and jarred. He could 
not see out. It frightened him. 

Every once in a while there would come a 
whimpering whine from out of the big double 
basket. But the whining always ceased im- 
mediately when Mr. Moulton gave it a shake. 

“What in the world have you in that 
basket, John!” exclaimed Mrs. Moulton as 
her husband labored up the long drive to the 
house. 

“Wait till we get round to the back and 
I’ll show you,” he answered, delaying the 
issue as long as possible. 

But it had to come, and it did. 

“How many times have I told you that I 
didn’t want a dog,” she said disapprovingly, 
when the basket had at last been opened and 
Pal was exposed to view, crouching in the 
bottom section, uncertain whether to jump 
out or remain where he was. 

[ 50 ] 


PAL 


And this was Pal’s introduction to his 
new home at Shady Nook, where the family 
always spent their summers by the side of an 
interesting little lake. 

The Moultons argued the question back 
and forth all that evening, and at last this was 
the decision at which they arrived: Pal was 
to remain through the month. Then, when 
they returned to the city, he should be sold, 
or at least a good home found for him else- 
where. Mary Moulton was adamant: there 
would be no place for him in town. She did 
not mean to be selfish, but she had never cared 
for dogs and felt that having one thrust upon 
her was an imposition; so there was nothing 
for John Moulton to do but to agree to the 
terms she laid down. 

But a new factor entered at the end of 
Pal’s month at Shady Nook — it was Chester, 
then aged five. The puppy was his very 
shadow. The little pair were inseparable — 
one aged five months and the other five 
years. 

Where John would surely have lost, when 
it came time to dispose of Pal, the little boy 
cried so piteously that his mother was utterly 
unable to resist, so Chester gained and Pal 
[ 51 ] 


PAL 


accompanied the family back to the city after 
all. 

“But we simply can’t keep him, John,” 
she said. “It’s out of the question. Some- 
thing will have to be done about it.” 

“Yes, I guess you’re right.” There was 
no use to fight the issue, and John Moulton 
knew it. They could not keep the dog with 
his wife feeling as she did about it. Pal’s 
blood was the bluest of canine blue, and a tidy 
sum had been paid for him, yet that did not 
matter — he could not stay. Something must 
be done about it, as Chester’s mother had 
declared. 

But what! That was the question. For- 
ever vigilant was five-year-old Chester Moul- 
ton, the idol of the home. Once a man had 
been sent to take Pal away, and in the morning 
he was miles distant. All that day Chester 
cried as if his little heart would break — as was 
to have been expected. But much to the sur- 
prise of both his parents, the next day it was 
the same — and the next — and the next after 
that. He was even restless at night, was hard 
to get to sleep, and so — Pal came back. What 
else could they do? 

For several days the boy did little else 


PAL 


than sit and hug the puppy, talking to him all 
the while. “They shan’t take ’oo ’way ’gain,” 
he repeated over and over, with his chubby 
arms clasped tightly around his little pet’s 
wiry neck. The pup just whined contentedly 
and nestled closer. 

And thus was Mary Moulton defeated. 
Thus Pal came into his home. 

Swiftly he outlived his puppyhood and 
grew to be a big dog, strong, alert, intelligent 
— while only the deeper grew his love for his 
little master. His mistress tolerated him for 
Chester’s sake. The dog was even finding a 
place in her heart — as long since he had done 
with the rest of the family. 

Another summer came — and Chester was 
six. The dog had lived scarce twice this many 
months — but he had grown almost to full ma- 
turity. Again the family moved to Shady Nook. 

The crisis in Pal’s life came with the dog 
show that was held on the Fourth of July. 
Many very valuable dogs were entered by 
the families summering in the vicinity. A 
noted Bench Show Judge was brought on 
from the city. And that’s how it all came 
about. Trouble for Chester and Pal broke 
out anew. 


[ 53 ] 


PAL 


The Judge decided to spend a week at the 
Lake before returning to the city. The day 
following the Dog Show he made a call on the 
Moultons. Before very long he said: 

“I gave Pal the winning ribbon yesterday 
because he’s the best specimen I’ve seen in 
some time — or ever before. He should ‘cop 
the blue’ almost as easily at Madison Square 
Garden as he did here. By next February I 
believe he can make any of them go some to 
beat him for ‘Best of all Breeds’ — let alone 
the Airedales, his own class. You’re going 
to show him, aren’t you, Mr. Moulton?” 

“Why, I hadn’t thought of it. Pal be- 
longs to my little boy, Chester.” 

“But it would be a shame not to enter him 
for the Westminster Show! At what figure 
do you hold him? I’ll offer a thousand dol- 
lars right now. What do you say?” 

That is as far as it might have gone if only 
John Moulton had said nothing more about it 
after the Judge had left. But that he did not 
do. He had, of course, refused the offer. 
No amount could induce him to part with 
Pal — on Chester’s account, if no other. That 
night, however, he made the fatal mistake of 
mentioning the matter to Mary. He did so 
[ 54 ] 


PAL 


only with the idea of making her appreciate 
Pal, as he knew so well she never had fully 
done. 

“He offered you a thousand dollars — and 
you refused it!” she exclaimed. 

A rather stormy interview followed. Ches- 
ter was young and would quickly forget all 
about it, she contended — and here was a real 
chance to dispose of the dog problem in the 
right way by giving Pal a good home. 

The next morning she did some tele- 
phoning on her own account. The offer was 
accepted — with the provision that the Moul- 
tons should keep Pal the two remaining days 
until his new owner should return to the city, 
as he could make no other adequate ar- 
rangements to keep him at the Lake. It was 
agreed that Pal would be ready for him on 
the afternoon of the 8th. 

* * 4 : * * $ 

Little Chester Moulton loved to fish from 
the end of the long pier that extended well out 
into the Lake. He had a little pole and line 
all his own — and for hours would sit in silent 
imitation of his father, who was a great fisher- 
man. For safety, his nurse would tie him 
securely by a strap run through a ring and 
[ 55 ] 


PAL 


passed around the boy’s body. It was usually 
Pal’s custom to lie close beside his little 
master — while the nurse would read or sew. 

Chester was fishing thus on the morning 
of the eighth of July. The nurse sat close 
by. But Pal was not in his usual place. For 
some reason or other, he had remained lying 
on the porch of the cottage a short distance 
away — perhaps because it was so hot. The 
humidity on this particular morning made 
for laziness in all life. 

Chester was beginning to be restless and 
was about ready to call to be unstrapped — 
when suddenly there came a sharp pull on 
the line. Something had caught the hook end 
of it, and away it went with a rush. The boy 
jumped to his feet with a shout. As he did so, 
the fish had reached the end of the line — but 
the little fellow held grimly to the pole. And 
then, for some unknown reason — the strap 
that was holding him let loose. His nurse 
ran with a scream to catch him, but was too 
late. She was old — she could not swim 
anyhow — and there was no one else near 
enough to be of assistance. Her screams 
attracted attention — but there was no one 
[ 56 ] 


PAL 


near the water just at that particular time, 
and while several came running from a dis- 
tance Chester’s life hung in the balance. 

Mary Moulton was awakened with a start 
from her book, which she had been reading 
under the shade of a wide-spreading oak. 
Frantically she rushed for the pier, but before 
she had fairly started, she was passed by a 
streak of black and tan that flew more 
swiftly than the wind. 

There was no sound as Pal passed her, but 
he tore the pebbles from their beds and 
scattered them with the sand and dust be- 
hind. The nearest man who had started to 
the rescue tripped and fell — but the great dog 
never wavered as he raced past him and 
out the long pier. 

The frantic nurse was shrieking now — but 
all she could do was wave her arms and tear 
her hair. Pal passed her without slackening 
his desperate speed. Nor did he as the end 
of the pier was reached, and he jumped. 

The little boy was just sinking to rise no 
more, when the dog was upon him — almost 
the entire length of his body from head to tail 
visible above the surface of the water, so 
[ 57 ] 


PAL 


powerfully was he swimming to reach his 
helpless little master. As Pal came up with 
Chester, the dog’s strong jaws closed firmly 
over a loose end of his little jacket. And thus, 
before any other help could be of assistance, 
Pal, unaided, dragged the boy safely out on 
the beach, where eager hands received him 
and carried him up to the house and put him 
to bed. 

Chester had just fallen asleep when his 
mother was summoned from his bedside, and 
found that — the Judge had come for Pal. 

“I — am — very — sorry — indeed,” she said 
slowly, as if weighing her words, “for I fear I 
have been the cause of making you a lot of 
trouble, but the fact is — we really can’t let 
you have Pal at any price. No, not for ten 
thousand dollars! But,” she added, “I realize 
that a bargain is a bargain — you agreed to 
buy Chester’s dog and we agreed to sell — 
so I will be perfectly willing to pay you any 
price you may name in order to make it right. 
But we can’t let Pal go at any price — he’s not 
for sale.” 

The Judge very naturally was confused, 
and showed it in the uncertainty of his reply. 

[58] 



Pal, unaided, dragged the boy safely out on the beach 



PAL 


Then Mary Moulton recounted to him the 
experience through which they had just 
passed. 

And then, because he was a true lover of 
good dogs, the Judge took from his pocket a 
slip of paper — which was a check for a thou- 
sand dollars made payable to Mary Moulton 
— and slowly tore it up into very small bits. 

When Chester’s mother returned to his 
bedside, she found him still asleep, but a very 
small and dirty little hand rested lovingly, 
even as he dreamed, on the head of a great 
dog that had at last found a real home. For 
even though Pal was still quite wet, so that 
water dripped on the floor where he stood, 
there was no word of reproach. There was, 
on the other hand, a world of tenderness in 
the caress as Mary Moulton herself tiptoed 
quietly around the bed and, for the first 
time since he had come to them, threw her 
arms around the dog’s neck with a gentle sob. 

And thus Chester found them still when, 
some little time later, he opened his eyes 
drowsily and asked for a cookie. 

The following item appeared the next day 
in an obscure column of an Ohio newspaper. 


“PAL” 


Some of you may have seen it at the time. 
It merely stated: 

DOG SAVES BOY’S LIFE 
Quick Action Rescues Young Master 
From Watery Grave 

, Ohio. July 9, 19 — 

A large Airedale Terrier to-day saved the life 
of his young master, Chester Moulton, aged 

six years, at Lake , where the 

Moultons have their summer home. No one 
but the boy’s old nurse was near enough to 
the scene to have been of assistance in time. 

But Pal, his dog, proved the hero of the 
hour — swift, courageous and powerful — 
over which fact the family are rejoicing 
to-day; and Pal is wearing a new silver collar, 
but utterly oblivious of the praises that 
are being sung for his deed. 


[ 61 ] 


























































i . 



























































A PIONEER DOG 





III. 


A PIONEER DOG 

^MONG the States, Ohio ranks as both 
/-A old and proud. Many of her pioneers 
^ could boast lineage from some of the 
best blood in either the old world or the new. 
The Buckeye State stands where she does to- 
day because such men and women were her 
sturdy sons and noble daughters. Harrowing 
were the experiences of these venturesome 
people in the days when Ohio was but a vast 
uncharted forest, the favorite hunting and bat- 
tle ground of the Red Men, who claimed the 
land by birthright. 

Many of the deeds of these early pioneers, 
both men and women — deeds of the days 
when Ohio was but the border land of the 
white man’s advance — have been recorded in 
history, song and story. But in those days of 
long ago — even as now — the Dog was man’s 
closest friend and companion, and often 
played an heroic part in the experiences of our 
forefathers. The noble dog is to-day more 
[ 65 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


than ever before coming into his own; yet in 
tales both of fact and of fiction the part played 
by this wonderful animal in the days before 
our land ceased to be but an endless magnifi- 
cent wilderness seems to have been most un- 
fortunately overlooked. Therefore, it is with 
the hope that in the telling there may be an 
interest — for everyone, but for all lovers of 
the dog in particular — that the following true 
record is penned. 

Back in the days when Ohio was but a 
“forest primeval,” there was a certain small 
settlement of cabins situated at the junction of 
three rivers, and in the center of this cluster 
there was a block house for defense against 
the Indians. 

Among the inhabitants of these rude 
dwellings were two personalities in particular 
whose fame had spread far through the 
borderland. One was Mary Mason, whose 
splendid womanhood and bewitching beauty 
made her the desire of most of the young men 
for miles around. And the other was Mary’s 
dog, Lady, a marvelous Scotch collie, of royal 
blood direct from the Highlands of Scotland. 
Among the cross-bred hounds of the other set- 
[ 66 ] . 


A PIONEER DOG 


tiers, Lady was an aristocrat almost out of 
place. 

But for all her royal blood, Lady was not 
a dainty worthless canine, as might be 
imagined — quite to the contrary. Based 
purely on the standards of worth of a pioneer 
dog, she was probably the most valuable west 
of the Alleghenies. She was strictly a “one 
man” dog — except when there was work to 
do. Then she would lend herself to the cir- 
cumstances and obey orders from whoever 
might have the right to speak with the voice 
of authority. 

Lady was a splendid hunter, whether it 
were big game or small. She would follow a 
trail as well as the best of hounds — and it is 
due to this ability that this story is told. The 
royal collie was intelligent, tireless and game. 
For all these traits she was loved by those who 
knew her, and honored by the many who had 
heard of her many remarkable achievements. 
She would hunt for days with an energy seem- 
ingly indefatigable; she was afraid of nothing 
that roamed the forests. Yet it was because 
these traits were backed up by an intelligence 
almost uncanny that her fame was greatest. 
There were many of her admirers who claimed 
[ 67 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


that Lady acted on more than instinct — that 
she had a mind, that she thought and reasoned. 
Be all this as it may, Lady was generally ac- 
knowledged to be the greatest dog on the 
frontier — and deservedly so. 

One day, soon after leaving the cabin in 
search of Lady, Mary Mason called: “Come, 
Father, let’s have a look at the puppies.” 

“Well, well, I’ll go again if you say so,” he 
answered, and joined his daughter for an in- 
spection of the offspring of the aristocrat. 
They were now about six weeks old, but Mary 
never tired of looking at them and watching 
their play. 

“Aren’t they fine, Father!” 

“They’re cute little critters now, all right 
enough — too bad they’re only half-breeds. 
It’s a shame for Lady to have anything but 
full-blooded pups. No chance for that, though, 
out in this country.” 

“Yes, Father — but look at that one little 
fellow over there; he’s marked just like Lady. 
I’m going to keep him.” 

“He might be all right at that, Daughter. 
Cross-breeds mostly turn out to be our best 
dogs out here on the border. Of course, 
[ 68 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


Lady’s an exception. Yes, let’s keep that pup 
an’ see how he turns out.” 

There was a call from the cabin, and father 
and daughter turned to go in to breakfast. 
As they did so, a young man was seen coming 
hurriedly toward them. 

“It’s Alfred Lee, Father — and he seems to 
be excited about something.” 

“He does, for a fact.” 

As he approached, Alfred met them with 
the usual hearty greetings of the border: 
“H’llo, Mary; howdy, John.” 

“Morning, Alfred,” answered John Mason. 
“Mary an’ I’ve just been havin’ a look at 
Lady’s new pups. But what’s up? You 
seemed to be in sort of a rush when you come 
up.” 

“Just enjoyin’ the early mornin’ air, I 
reckon,” he answered, as he looked meaningly 
at Mary. 

“Well, it’s a fine mornin’ to be up an’ 
about, Alfred. Had your breakfast? Better 
join us,” urged John Mason. 

“Thanks, John — I might do that. Been 
out early an’ haven’t had none yet. A fellow’s 
got to eat, I gather.” 


[ 69 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


“Good. Now, Mary, you run an’ tell 
mother Alfred’s goin’ to eat with us.” 

When Mary had gone, John Mason turned 
to Alfred: “All right now, son, out with it — 
what’s up?” 

“Fact is, John, I’m a bit puzzled ’bout the 
Injuns. I’m ’fraid we may be cornin’ in for 
a spell o’ trouble.” 

“How so? They’ve been quiet now for 
quite, some time. I ain’t noticed nothin’ — 
what’ve you?” 

“Last night I ’lowed I’d go out early this 
mornin’ an’ see if I could spot a turkey ’fore 
breakfast. Shortly after daybreak I was up 
in the woods by the spring, the one by the big 
maple, an’ I set down in the bushes to wait a 
spell an’ see what might turn up. Purty soon 
I looked out an’ seen a big Injun standin’ over 
by the spring. He was a Shawnee, a stranger, 
an’ he struck me suspicious, so I laid low. He 
acted like he expected somebody, the way he 
kept lookin’ around. An’ sure ’nough, ’twasn’t 
long ’fore, sorta sneakin’ like, ’long come that 
big Injun Jim.” 

“The one who’s been hangin’ round here 
a while?” 

“Yes. An’ they talked there a few minutes 
[70] 


A PIONEER DOG 


together, increasin’ my suspicions the way 
they kept lookin’ around all the time. Then 
the Shawnee snuk off into the woods, an’ this 
fellow Jim come on back here. I waited till I 
figgered they’d both got away for sure, then 
I snuk on back in a hurry — an’ run into you 
an’ Mary out there.” 

“So we’re the first you’ve seen?” 

“Yes.” 

“An’ this Jim — he come on back to the 
clearin’? You think he’s back here now? 
Sure they didn’t get wind of you, Alf?” 

“You’re right. No, I don’t think they 
knew anyone was within a mile of ’em.” 

“Come on to breakfast, you two. How 
long do you expect to keep Mother waiting?” 

“There’s Mary callin’ us in — reckon we’d 
better hurry up, or they’ll be scoldin’ us bad. 
But this Injun business sure’ll bear investi- 
gatin’,” was all John Mason said for the 
present, due to the interruption caused by the 
announcement of breakfast. 

“You going to shoot to-morrow in the 
matches, Alf?” Mary asked, after they were 
seated. ' 

“Can’t say yet. I’d like to.” Although a 
man of few words, as was not unusual even 
[ 71 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


among the young men of the border, it would 
have been easily evident to an observer that 
Alfred Lee had not escaped the charms of 
Mary Mason. And it had often been whis- 
pered that Alfred was secretly the most 
favored of all her suitors. 

“Why don’t you, Alf?” Mary persisted. 
“You’d surely win the prize. But of course 
you will shoot — you’re only teasing me.” 

“Well, I reckon I’ll shoot, if I don’t have 
to go off into the woods,” he replied. Then, 
desirous of changing the subject, he added: 
“I’ll have to see them pups, Mary, ’fore I go.” 

“I don’t know whether I’ll show them to 
you or not,” she pouted. “You’re always 
teasing me about Lady. You’re the only per- 
son on the border who doesn’t appreciate her. 
You think you’re such a mighty hunter, 
mister man — but Lady can show you a thing 
or two.” 

“They do all say, I’ll allow, Mary, as how 
she’s a great dog — but the plain fact is, I’ve 
always figgered any dog was only in the way 
in the woods. They may spoil more for you 
than they help. They’re only a bother — that 
is, for a man who knows how to hunt. Of 
course, it’s different, now, if a man don’t 
[72] 


A PIONEER DOG 


know the woods. I don’t want to take no 
credit away from Lady.” 

“You’ll have cause to change your mind, 
Alfred — you just wait and see.” 

“Well, now, I’d like to — meanin’ nothin’ 
against Lady at that.” 

“Come, then, I’ll show you the pups,” and 
Mary ran on ahead to the little shed back of 
the cabin, where Lady was proudly guarding 
her litter. “There,” she exclaimed, “aren’t 
they splendid, Alfred!” 

He regarded them critically for several 
minutes before he answered. The young men 
of the border were not given to flattery or 
empty praise. “Yes, I reckon they’re all 
right, Mary. That little critter over yonder’s 
goin’ to be a regular double for Lady. Look 
at him grab hold of that other one, will you! 
Bet he’ll be a little devil for spunk.” 

“Yes — that’s the one I’ve decided to 
keep,” she told him, pleased to have her judg- 
ment backed by the best hunter in the settle- 
ment. 

“Named him yet?” 

“No.” 

“Might call him Tndian’, Mary, he’s goin’ 
to be such a scrapper.” 

[ 73 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


“I might. But I think I’ll call him just 
plain Jack, more likely. I always like 'Jack 1 
for a dog.” 

“Yes, Jack’d be a good name. Well, I’ll 
have to start along now. I’ve got to see your 
father a few minutes ’fore I go.” 

“Where are you going, Alfred?” 

“No place special, just off in the woods a 
piece, I figger.” 

“What’s gone wrong? Tell me.” 

“Nothin’. Why?” 

“Yes, there has, too. You can’t fool me. 
I know from the way you came up a while ago, 
and from the way father and you were talking, 
that something is the matter. Now tell me. 
Tell me the truth.” 

“I’ll allow there’s nothin’ to tell.” 

“Alfred — listen to me. Why should you 
be afraid to tell me the truth? Don’t waste 
time trying to fool me. It’s better to tell me, 
whatever it is — lots better than to leave me 
in ignorance, when I’ll be bound to know 
sooner or later anyhow. Hurry now — then 
go see father, if you must.” 

“Well, I gather the Injuns are up to some 
devilment — but I don’t have no idea what, 
yet. I run across two of ’em in the woods this 
[ 74 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


mornin’, an’ they were figgerin’ up somethin’. 
But they didn’t see me.” 

“Do you think there’s going to be trouble?” 

“I don’t know — but you stay close to the 
blockhouse.” He spoke with a grave stern- 
ness that thrilled the girl. “Don’t go away at 
all. There’s your father now. I’ll go see 
him.” 

John Mason talked earnestly with Alfred 
for some time. Finally he gripped his hand in 
parting, and the young man turned to go. 
“Good-bye, Mary; see you soon,” he called, 
with a swift, tender look, as he started to 
hasten away. 

“Alfred, wait — ” 

She came running to where he was. 
“Where are you going?” 

“Goin’ to take up the trail of that Injun 
I run into this mornin’. Your father thinks 
I’d better, too. It’s best we find out what’s 
up.” 

“I hate to see you take such risks as you 
do.” In spite of her bravery a catch was in 
her voice. “It’s terribly dangerous work. 
Are you sure it’s best?” 

“Yes — an’ it’s not real dangerous, Mary, 
for a man as knows the woods like I do. But, 
[ 75 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


anyhow, everythin’s dangerous out here on the 
border. We must expect it.” 

* ‘Suppose the trail leads you to a hostile en- 
campment,” she persisted, “what would you 
do?” 

“That’s just what I’m goin’ for to find out. 
An’ if it does, I’ll hurry back with the news,” 
and he smiled reassuringly. 

“You might not be able to get back — or, 
not in time. Alfred, listen — I have a plan. 
You’ll object to it, I know — but it’s a good 
one, just the same. Please take my advice. 
That Indian has had a good start on you, 
and, even as wonderful a trailer as you are, 
you’ll be miles and miles away from home in 
the woods before you can even hope to catch 
up with him — and there may be more of 
them. Undoubtedly there are.” 

“But they’re not expectin’ to be followed, 
an’ they’ll not travel fast — not likely,” he in- 
terrupted her. Regardless of what doubts he 
may have held himself, it was plain that he did 
not want to alarm the girl unnecessarily. It 
was the chivalry of the border, no matter how 
inured to danger and hardships their women 
might be. 


[ 76 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


“ ‘Not likely,’ you say,” she quickly an- 
swered. “And that’s just it — you don’t know 
that they won’t. You say yourself that you 
don’t know what’s up. Here’s my plan. Take 
Lady with you. She’ll follow their trail faster 
and more easily than even you could hope to 
do. She’ll obey any command you give her. 
Put her on a lead so she’ll have to go right 
along with you. You’ll make double time by 
it, Alfred. It’ll be surer, and safer, and 
quicker — and it won’t take you so far from 
home,” she ended with conviction. 

“You think I need a dog to help me follow 
the trail of any Indian! Mary, I didn’t think 
that of you. I’m the best trailer on the 
border, an’ what’s more — you know it.” 

“Yes, you are,” she hastened to reassure 
him of her intentions, “but your eyes can’t fol- 
low a trail like Lady’s nose can. Even if she 
wouldn’t be more accurate, she’d be faster. 
You’re only human, Alfred, and scenting is 
one of her God-given powers. Don’t be 
obstinate, please. I thought of this while you 
and father were talking. Oh, do — do — 
please do this — for me,” she faltered. “I 
know — something inside of me tells me it’s 
[ 77 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


the thing to do. Don’t let your pride stand in 
the way of what’s best for your safety, and the 
safety of all of us here.” 

“But why have you taken such an interest * 
in this all of a sudden, girl?” 

“I— don’t — know. But I do know it’s 
the thing to do. God gave woman intuition for 
some purpose — and mine is urging me now. 
Will you follow my advice, Alfred?” 

“Mary, I—” 

She saw indecision written on his face, and 
interrupted him. She felt some irresistible 
force prompting her. “Alfred,” she said 
solemnly, “you have professed to care for me. 
Would it make any difference if I consented 
now to marry you when you get back?” 

“Mary!” A Borderman is taught, like an 
Indian, to control his feelings. But Alfred 
found his love getting the better of him. Had 
there not been serious business ahead, he 
might have been completely overcome by the 
joy of what he heard. 

“Then you will take Lady with you?” he 
heard a wonderful voice asking him. 

“Yes, girl, I’ll take her,” he answered. 
“And, please God, I’ll come back to you.” 


[78] 


A PIONEER DOG 


“So Alfred took Lady, you say?” John 
Mason showed plainly the surprise the news 
gave him. “Well, I do declare— an’ him al- 
ways sayin’ as how a dog’s only a nuisance in 
the woods! How’d he happen to take her, 
Mary?” 

“How should I know, Father?” the girl 
answered with the way of her sex. “He 
seemed to need her — I suppose he wanted to 
trail fast.” 

“Never seen the time before when Alf’d 
allow anythin’ could beat him at trailin’. 
What’d you do with the pups?” 

“They’re playing out in back, Father. 
They’re old enough now to be alone.” 

The way Lady took up the trail of the 
Indian from the Spring was a revelation to 
Alfred. But for the leash, he could not have 
hoped to keep pace with her. It was a wonder- 
ful day of early Fall, before the trees had lost 
their foliage; in fact the leaves had just begun 
to take on the magnificent colorings of the 
season, though some had already fallen to 
form a beautiful carpet for the forest. 

Lady was a silent trailer, for which Alfred 
was thankful, but she led the hunter on with 
[79] 


A PIONEER DOG 


a sureness that could not be doubted. Con- 
sequently, at the speed at which they traveled, 
he soon left the work entirely to her acute and 
accurate nose, and himself gave up trying to 
be of any assistance. In many places where 
the man would have had to pick the trail 
slowly, the dog never hesitated. 

“You’re all right, old girl,” Alfred mused 
in wonder. “Yes, you’re sure all right.” 

On and on they went, until at length the 
sun began to sink in the west. They had not 
stopped for lunch, in their keenness to learn 
the object of their work. As Lady needed not 
the light of day to help her, they kept on until 
it was quite late, when Alfred called a halt for 
the night in a little gully that offered both 
shelter and protection for their fire. 

“Good work, Lady,” he said enthusiasti- 
cally, as he patted her. “You’re sure all that 
they say ’bout you. You’ve helped me a lot 
to-day, an’ we’re most twice as far as I’d have 
come alone. I do reckon now, though,” he 
continued, speaking to himself, and turning a 
thought over in his mind, “as how we’d purty 
near have come up with that Injun if he 
hadn’t been goin’ fast hisself — an’ it’s a 
[ 80 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


bad sign. Most likely he's up to somethin’, 
all right. Well, to-morrow we should see.” 

Men of the forest are not given either to 
burning daylight or wasting the hours of dark. 
In as short a time as prior duties would per- 
mit, Alfred was wrapped in the sound slumber 
of utter fatigue, with Lady curled up close by 
his side. 

They were up before the first rays of the 
sun had started to creep over the horizon, and 
soon they were ready to resume the trail. The 
crisp, cutting air caused Lady to bound ahead 
with an energy keenly on edge, but the leash 
held her down to Alfred’s speed. He shivered 
at first as he hurried along after her, but the 
hard work soon brought on a comfortable 
warm glow. 

They had traveled two or three miles and 
it was still not light. Alfred pulled Lady down 
so that her pace was no more than an easy 
walking gait for him. He knew, as a woods- 
man knows such things, that the Indians they 
were trailing (for he now saw unmistakable 
signs that the Shawnee had been joined by 
others) could not be very much farther 
ahead. The fact that the red skins had come 
[81] 



r// ^ #(i 

An Indian appeared in the underbrush 


A PIONEER DOG 


this far was a suspicious indication — for Al- 
fred and Lady had come faster and farther the 
day before than was customary for one day's 
travel. It was evident that the Indians must 
be bent on some definite mission — and that it 
was for no good purpose was more than likely, 
or the meeting of the two Indians at the spring 
the preceding morning would not have been 
fraught with so many suspicious circum- 
stances. 

There was hardly even a faint sniffing as 
the dog’s keen nose followed the trail — and 
other than that she made no sound. As for 
Alfred, he displaced not a twig. He was 
typically the ever alert American Borderman 
now. Every next minute might precipitate a 
crisis — might throw them into the midst of 
the Indian camp. 

Suddenly Lady gave a short lunge ahead, 
and Alfred reached down quickly and pushed 
her to the ground. “Quiet,” he whispered into 
her ear, so gently it could not have been heard 
six paces away. Almost as soon as had Lady, 
the keen-eyed woodsman discovered the loca- 
tion of the Indian camp ahead. While he was 
yet undecided what course of action to pursue, 
Alfred heard a slight sound to the rear. He 
[83] 


A PIONEER DOG 


turned quickly and threw the long rifle to his 
shoulder. 

As he did so, a warrior stepped from the 
bushes behind them. Before a bullet could end 
the Indian’s life, Lady’s jerk on the leash had 
destroyed Alfred’s aim — and the gun was not 
discharged. 

“Ugh! Why shoot Great Bear? He al- 
ways your friend,” the savage stoically ad- 
dressed Alfred. 

“I was startled, Great Bear, ’fore I saw 
who it was. We can both thank the dog here 
that I didn’t pull the trigger.” 

It was a fortunate thing for the hunter 
that it was Great Bear whom he had thus en- 
countered, for once, years before, Alfred had 
saved this Indian’s life — and for that Great 
Bear would always be his friend. 

“You’re in war paint, Great Bear. What’s 
the reason?” questioned the Borderman. 

“Great Bear glad his friend not at settle- 
ment. Never forget friend.” 

“What’s the matter, Great Bear?” 

“Good thing not at settlement. Great 
Bear glad.” 

“Why?” 


[84] 


A PIONEER DOG 


The savage only shrugged his shoulders 
expressively. 

“Shall I hurry home and warn my friends?” 
Alfred whispered eagerly — yet very quietly, 
lest they be overheard. 

“Too late,” grunted the savage. 

“Too late! What d’you mean? Tell me.” 

“Say too late. Hear me.” 

“But I can get there ’fore these fellows 
ahead of us do.” 

“They too late, too. They not get there 
first — but they get there soon ’nough, may 
be.” The Indian’s words were ominous of 
sinister meaning, and Alfred shuddered as he 
thought in particular of Mary Mason. 

“You mean, then, that another band will 
reach there first, Great Bear?” he demanded. 
And then he added quickly: “How soon, you 
think?” 

“Purty soon. Maybe hour — maybe three. 
Now Great Bear go. Glad friend away. Better 
stay. Don’t let warrior see. Go towards sun.” 

“Thank you, friend,” said Alfred, as he 
turned to go towards the East. The settle- 
ment lay directly to the South, but he sought 
to mislead Great Bear as to his intentions. 

[85] 


A PIONEER DOG 


He soon hurried faster. What could he 
do? By no superhuman effort could he get 
back short of five or six hours. And that 
would be too late — unless the first party 
should be delayed. Suddenly he came to a 
stop as Lady’s leash caught on a bush. She 
wagged her tail as he undid it. 

“What can I do, dog?” he appealed to the 
dumb beast. “What can we do to help your 
mistress?” 

“We,” he had said. He felt that he was 
not alone. Suddenly he began searching 
hastily through his clothing for something on 
which to scratch a message of warning to those 
at home. It was broad daylight now. Time 
was slipping away. But an idea had come to 
Alfred. It was only a chance — but worth 
taking. Lady would do it if half the stories 
he’d heard about her were true. She might 
make it — if she only would, and could, under- 
stand. He unsnapped her leash, and gave the 
command. 

“Go home, Lady. Go — home — quick ,” he 
ordered. And she was gone. The Border- 
man breathed a silent prayer as the noble col- 
lie sped away so fast that it gave him hope. 

[86] 


A PIONEER DOG 


A shot that Alfred heard a little later in the 
far distance bothered him — until then, it had 
not occurred to him that Lady might not live 
to reach home with her precious message. 
The woods would be full of savages who might 
not spare the famous dog of which they had 
all heard. His heart was consumed with dread 
as he pressed on with what speed he could in 
Lady’s wake. 

if* * * 

“Do you suppose Alfred will get back in 
time for the shoot, Father?” asked Mary 
Mason. 

“I can’t say, Daughter, but I gather not, 
from the fact that he ain’t here yet. It’s most 
time now for the shootin’ to commence. We 
better be goin’ on over.” 

“I’m worried about him, Father. He 
seemed so serious yesterday.” 

“Nonsense, girl. Why, there ain’t a better 
man travels the woods than Alfred. Come 
on, if you’re goin’ with me.” 

They had started for the place of the shoot- 
ing. As they did so, Mary glanced towards 
the river in the direction taken by Alfred and 
n Lady the morning before. 

[87] 


A PIONEER DOG 


“Father,” she said, “what's that swim- 
ming across the river? Do you see where I 
mean?” 

John Mason looked in the direction in- 
dicated. Then his gun went to his shoulder. 
It was soon lowered. “Thought first ’twas an 
Injun," he muttered, “and ’count of what Al- 
fred saw yesterday I was goin’ to plug him. 
But ’taint no Injun. Reckon it’s a dog,’’ and 
he started on. 

“What dog, Father — can you tell?’’ the 
girl asked. 

“No — why?’’ 

“Alfred took Lady, you know.’’ 

“Then she’s with him, I reckon.’’ 

The dog had reached the bank. It seemed 
to have great difficulty in getting up on the 
shore. Finally it succeeded. But something 
appeared to be the matter. John and Mary 
stood and watched as it came closer. 

“That dog’s hurt,’’ he said. 

“Father!’’ screamed the girl, “It’s Lady, 
sure as you’re alive. Come — hurry!’’ 

Lady had also recognized her mistress, 
and came on to them. She showed signs of 
having come far and fast. The last few steps, 
she staggered, and sank to the ground. 

[ 88 ] 


A PIONEER DOG 


“Oh, Lady girl, what’s the matter?” 
sobbed a beloved voice in the dog’s ear. 

But Lady did not answer the caress. She 
had answered her last. 

“She’s been hit hard, Daughter. Let me 
have a look at her. D’you s’pose Alfred could 
have had an accident, or mistook her for a 
wolf?” 

“He had her on a leash. Has she been shot, 
Father? Oh, she has! Look at the blood!” 

“Come — I’ll carry her home. Listen, 
girl, you love Lady — but you’re a Borderman’s 
daughter an’ you must learn to be brave. 
We all must, out here — you know that al- 
ready. Lady’s been hit hard, an’ I doubt if 
she’ll live.” 

The girl tried hard to be brave, but she 
sobbed aloud as her father placed the dear dog 
carefully, so that her head rested in Mary’s lap. 

“Look, there’s something on her collar. 
See what it is, Father.” 

And this was the message John Mason 
found: 

“Warpath. Blockhouse. Quick. Lose 

no time. Lady may even be too late. 

Alfred.” 

H: % ^ ^ % 

[ 89 ] 



He gently laid the dog’s head in her lap 




A PIONEER DOG 


Even after the warwhoop had rung through 
the still forests, just as the last of the settlers 
had been rushed to shelter and safety, Mary 
Mason sat in a corner of the blockhouse hold- 
ing in her lap the still head of her beloved 
dog. Although a pioneer’s daughter, she was 
not ashamed of her tears. 

“Oh, you wonderful, glorious dog!” she 
sobbed. “We all owe our lives to you — to 
you, and to Alfred. I pray to God he may be 
safe.” 


[ 91 ] 



OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 



















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IV. 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 

W E HAD been hunting ruffed Grouse, 
and we had had good luck. The six 
of us were sitting about the camp- 
fire that last night talking over the trip, and 
not one but regretted having to start back 
home the next morning. 

Our dogs figured conspicuously in our 
reminiscences. They had fully done their 
share — and had given us some exhilarating 
moments during our outing. Dubell’s Won- 
der, a truly masterful Pointer, came in for his 
full portion of praise. 

“Yes, he’s good,” said Clifford Young. 
“Reminds me of Old Frank more than any 
other dog I ever shot over. Not that he’s 
really as good, of course.” 

“I remember Frank — and he was all that 
Clifford may claim for him,” spoke up Johnnie 
Grue. “Do you recall the time you first dis- 
covered that he really would point birds, 
Clifford?” 


[95] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


“Well, I guess I do,” Clifford answered 
with a chuckle of pride. “I loved Old Frank 
— he meant a lot to me — and I don’t want 
to talk about him just to hear myself, but 
Johnnie has got me going. 

“My father was a large wholesale Grocer. 
One evening he came home to supper bringing 
a scrawny looking black and tan setter pup 
which had been sent to him by one of his cus- 
tomers. A We three boys, my two younger 
brothers and myself, were so excited we could 
hardly eat our suppers — it was our first dog. 

“ ‘What’s his name, Father?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Guess he hasn’t any yet — what shall we 
call him?’ he answered. 

“Living at our house at the time was my 
older cousin, Ned Cunningham. ‘Call the 
pup Frank,’ he said. 

“ ‘Why Frank?’ asked my mother. 

“ ‘He reminds me of Frank Farrell,’ said 
Ned, winking at my father. 

“He was an awkward, ungainly pup, I sup- 
pose — but I thought Ned was serious. Any- 
how I rather liked the name of Frank, so I 
at once agreed. Father and mother both 
smiled. Ned was a great kidder and they 
knew he had never cared for Frank Farrell. 

[ 96 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


‘The pup grew rapidly — and rapidly grew 
into a place in our hearts that was very strong. 
In fact, he grew so fast and so big that father 
said he thought he must have a few quarts of 
St. Bernard blood in his veins. Yet there was 
no question but that the predominating blood- 
line was Gordon Setter. 

“As the oldest of the boys, I assumed pro- 
prietorship over Frank. I took him with me 
always and everywhere — except to school. 
The dog became a favorite with all the boys in 
the neighborhood. He was gentle and kind, 
yet his size, strength and courage made him 
a splendid fighter — in which fact my friends 
and I took great pride. I am afraid we little 
devils were responsible for many a street scrap 
between Frank and some other dog. As a bird 
dog he was an untried, unknown quantity, but 
he developed into a typical boy’s dog — a 
great companion, an especially strong swim- 
mer, everything in a dog that a boy’s heart 
craves. He seemed to rise to any occasion, 
and always did the right thing. I believe 
he could really think — if not, Frank certainly 
had the best instinct of any animal I ever 
saw. He would ride with me in my little 
home-made canvas canoe — and his splendid 
[ 97 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


balancing ability made him much more of a 
help than a hindrance. 

'‘After a while I had a harness made and 
taught him to pull a little goat wagon that 
father bought for me; and at this also the dog 
was a wonder at learning what I wanted him 
to do. He would respond to the touch of the 
reins as well as the best driving horse I ever 
sat behind, and he was a glutton for work in 
the shafts. Whenever we would get up a little 
picnic party, and the other boys would go on 
their bicycles, I usually drove Frank and car- 
ried all the boys’ lunches in the little wagon. 

“One day I remember in particular. After 
a hard drive out, but with a good swim and 
long rest in between, I pedalled home on the 
bicycle of one of the smaller boys and let him 
ride in the wagon to lighten the load — and 
Frank kept right up with the bicycles all the 
way. Not many dogs could have done it — 
or would have tried, especially with a strange 
driver. 

“One of my friends in school carried 
papers, and many a night we drove over his 
route with Frank pulling the wagon, paper 
sack and all. Yet he only grew stronger under 
the work. I believe he really liked it. 

[ 98 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


Whether on the long, dusty country roads, up 
hill or down, or on the crowded city streets, 
Frank was the equal of any pony that ever 
lived — weight considered, of course. In after 
years I often compared him to the steady cart- 
dogs of Belgium. 

“But he was much more than that. We 
taught Frank to run rabbits, kill cats, hunt 
coon — in short, he was an all-round boys’ dog. 

“The one thing he would persist in doing 
that I didn’t care about, and yet couldn’t 
break him of, was killing every duck he would 
come across. One day when we had him out in 
the country he killed fourteen ducks, which 
cost me fifty cents apiece — all my bank held at 
the time! — and the farmer kept the ducks! He 
sold them in market the next day for as much 
more, I reckon. But as long as Frank lived 
he just naturally would kill tame ducks, every- 
thing to the contrary withstanding — he even 
seemed to take a wilder interest in it than 
in rabbits, cats or anything else. This was 
something I never could understand. 

“There’s one thing I want to say right now 
— but I can’t tell it to you as I’d like to — no 
one could do that; it’s just this: I loved Frank 
better than anything or anybody in the world, 
[ 99 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


excepting only my mother, father and broth- 
ers. And I know he loved me just as much. 
There isn’t anything in this world truer than 
a real dog — and Frank was a real dog. He 
was the best pal I ever had — and for that 
matter, I never will have a better one. 

“I think it was when we were in the sec- 
ond year of high school that I met you, wasn’t 
it, Johnnie?” 

“Yep, in the fall of 1900,” said Johnnie 
Grue. 

“I thought so. Well, until then I had never 
hunted quail. All I’d ever done before I met 
Johnnie was kid’s shooting — roaming around 
anywhere, like a boy will, just to be out-doors, 
and taking a pop at anything you see, from a 
ground-hog to a chipmunk. But even then 
Johnnie was a good quail shot. He had been 
hunting them for two or three years down on 
his uncle’s farm south of town. He didn’t 
have a dog then — but he was almost as good 
as one himself. He certainly knew where the 
birds were on that farm, and all the farms 
about. And he would get them, too.” 

“Thanks, old man,” said Johnnie with a 
grin. 

“Well, it’s a fact. And I’ll never forget 
[ 100 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


the time you first asked me to go with you — 
and how you absolutely refused to let me take 
Frank with us.” 

“But you couldn’t blame me at that time, 
Clifford. I didn’t think he would work on 
quail — and you didn’t either.” 

“That’s right. In the scrub shooting I had 
done, when Old Frank had been along, we had 
never run across any quail — rabbits and 
black birds had been about our limit of luck 
or effort. No, I couldn’t and didn’t honestly 
blame you for not wanting Frank along — 
probably to spoil the day for you — though for 
my own part I never cared what I got, or how, 
and I liked to have Frank with me always. 

“Johnnie and I had several hunts together 
on his uncle’s farm, and had some good luck 
— that is, Johnnie did. I don’t think I got 
anything but a few meadow-larks. But I had 
fun, just the same. Then one day I got my 
first quail — by accident or luck. I just shot 
at the covey — and one fell. Didn’t aim at any 
one bird in particular, I think — but of course 
I didn’t tell that to Johnnie.” 

“/ guess you didn't ,” Johnnie chuckled at 
the remembrance. “You bragged about that 
shot for weeks.” 


[ 101 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


Clifford laughingly acknowledged it. 

'‘Anyhow,” he continued, "I did hate to 
admit even to myself, then, that the shot was 
mere blind luck, but, be that as it may, from 
that day on I thought I was a quail hunter, 
full fledged. No more promiscuous shooting 
for me, after that. 

"One Saturday I went out by myself. Old 
Frank went along with me, as he always did, 
except on those first few hunts with Johnnie. 
We had been knocking around pretty much as 
usual — and I had shot a rabbit, a black bird, 
a chipmunk, and a mud-hen. It was getting 
late in the afternoon, and we started for home. 
As we were passing by a pretty thick but small 
strip of woods, Frank jumped a rabbit — and 
started after him. It was too late for me to 
follow, so I just waited for Frank to come 
back. 

"But he didn’t come back. I must have 
waited a half hour — and no Frank. Another 
long wait, and the sun was sinking — and 
still no Frank. This was something new for 
him. He wasn’t much of a trailer and never 
followed rabbits very far — at least unless I 
was with him. He never wanted to stay away 
from me long enough for that. 

[ 102 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


“I was getting pretty upset about him, 
and called several times. I called again and 
again, but no Frank. I was worried now, and 
started through the woods to look for him in 
the direction he had taken, calling to him as 
I went. 

"And then, just as I was about to pass 
again into the open, at the far end of the 
woods, I found him — standing so still that I 
almost passed him by. He was so intense that 
he gave no notice of my presence. It was as 
if he were carved from solid stone. I couldn’t 
imagine what it could possibly mean! Then 
suddenly it dawned on me — he was pointing 
something! ‘But what can it be?’ I wondered 
to myself. It made me nervous. I spoke to 
him. I might as well have addressed the rocks 
or the trees. Yet this much was certain: the 
greatest bird dog champion of all ages past or 
to come never made a better, truer stand than 
that. 

"Determined to learn the cause at all risk 
— I was only a boy, you know — I stepped a 
pace ahead of Frank. Stealthily he moved one 
foot forward, then the other, until three such 
steps had been taken — then still again. ‘What 
is it, Frank, old boy?’ I said. There was no 
[ 103 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


answering whine, as I had expected — only the 
stillness. 

“I carefully advanced to the brush pile just 
ahead, and kicked it with my foot. Heavens, 
what a rushing whir! It was a full covey of 
quail! I was too amazed to shoot. 

“Never, as long as I live, will I forget the 
surge of pride and joy that came over me in 
that minute as I began to grasp the fact that 
Frank had found and held a covey of birds. 
So far as I knew, Frank had never found quail 
before. Oh, what days of pleasure were in 
store for us both! Many thoughts kept 
crowding one upon the other. I remember 
that I thought of you, Johnnie, and gloried 
in what a surprise my dog was destined to 
give you. 

“It was too late to follow the birds — and 
I had been too surprised to shoot when they 
‘flushed’. But I was the proudest hunter in 
seven states as we trudged along home — and 
I think Frank was proud too. In fact, I know 
he was. He knew that he had done something 
fine in my eyes — and he was glad. 

“After that day we went hunting regularly 
— and we went seriously, now, for quail. 

[ 104 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


One thing that astonished me was the way 
Frank stopped bothering about rabbits — 
when he came to know that quail were the real 
game for a bird dog. Remember the first day 
you went with us, Johnnie — how surprised 
you were at the way he worked?” 

“Yes, I do. You bragged a lot about him, 
I remember,” chuckled Johnnie. “But you 
had not said too much, at that — as it proved. 
Yes, sir, boys,” Johnnie turned to the rest of 
us, “that dog was one of the best I ever shot 
over — he was a wonder.” 

“You bet,” Clifford continued, “he surely 
was a wonder. And now, I’m going to tell 
you about his last hunt — shall I? Don’t 
hesitate, fellows, to call a halt if you’re tired 
and want to turn in — or if I bore you with my 
enthusiasm for my old dog.” 

“Absolutely not — go on, we want to hear 
it,” said Smithie, and we all agreed with him, 
urging Clifford to tell us more. 

“Well then — here goes. It was years later 
— and Frank was by that time a full-fledged 
veteran. With each new season he had be- 
come more perfect — until he was as near per- 
fection as a bird dog can be. We had 
[ 105 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


hunted together in many places. I had 
grown to full manhood — and Frank was an 
old dog, and was now Old Frank to us all. 

“One day Jack Green called me up and 
wanted to go the next day for the last hunt of 
the season. It was in December and the 
weather had turned bitter cold. I protested, 
debating the logic of hunting for pleasure on 
a day when pleasure was impossible. But J ack 
insisted, and I agreed to go. ‘Be sure to bring 
Old Frank,’ he said, ‘and I’ll get Judge Carey 
to let me have Shy Ann.’ Jack didn’t have a 
dog of his own just at that time. 

“We agreed to meet at his house, have 
breakfast there at five o’clock the next morn- 
ing and take the six o’clock train for Alpha, 
about two miles from where there was good 
hunting in some very rough and wooded 
country. 

“ ‘I couldn’t get Shy Ann for to-day,’ Jack 
told me while we were eating breakfast. 
‘Judge said she’d been sick — but I think he 
was just afraid she might get her dear self 
cold. Old Frank can take care of us, 
though.’ 

“ ‘Well, Jack,’ I said, ‘I do know that the 
[ 106 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


Judge is surely extra careful of Shy Ann — 
but I don’t know that I blame him much/ 

“ Tm surprised at your saying that,’ he 
answered, ‘You have always been very liberal 
with Frank.’ 

“ ‘Yes, but Frank’s no ordinary dog,’ I 
reminded him. ‘No one could spoil him. He’s 
almost human. He thinks. What applies 
to Frank wouldn’t fit an ordinary dog — or 
an unordinary dog either, for that matter. 
But he’s getting old, and it’s desperately 
cold to-day, and I wish we had a mate for 
him to work with. I hate to have him go 
all alone.’ 

“ ‘Nonsense — why?’ he said. 

“ ‘Oh, well — just because, I guess,’ I told 
him. I remember it all now as if it were but 
yesterday. 

“About a mile east of Alpha, that day, 
we cut off into a corn field on the right 
and started to hunt almost due southeast. 
Presently we shot a rabbit apiece. About 
three-quarters of a mile farther on there was 
a second-growth tract where Old Frank found 
the first convey of quail — and we had some 
fine sport. By the time we had worked down 
[ 107 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


the scattered birds, it was nearly noon, and we 
found some wood and built a fire — a good, 
big one. Then we crowded up close to it and 
ate lunch. I gave Old Frank the better half 
of mine. He seemed a little tired, I thought; 
and he also seemed unusually anxious to keep 
close to the fire. 

“Jack asked me if I didn’t think Frank was 
beginning to show his age a good bit; but I 
told him I hadn’t thought so, much — anyhow, 
not until that day. But he didn’t seem quite 
his old self as he nudged up close to the fire. 
Still, what dog would? It was so cold! 
And Frank wasn’t young any more, either, 
though he didn’t show it in the quality of his 
work — except that he wasn’t quite so fast. 
His nose was as keen and true as ever. I had 
sometimes wondered after a hard day, how- 
ever, if he wasn’t keeping up just on pure 
nerve — of which he had more than enough 
for ten ordinary dogs. That day, as I patted 
him, he whined a little and crowded closer to 
me. It was one of those contented whines — 
and yet it came to me afterward that there had 
been something different about it. 

“After we had eaten and rested, we pre- 
pared to resume the hunt. It was too cold to 
[ 108 ] 



He seemed to want to keep close to the fire 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


sit for long — even round the fire. We struck 
out towards what was the roughest coun- 
try in three counties. It took us over an 
hour to reach the edge of the thicket bor- 
dering the big woods, and it was about two 
o’clock when we entered. Just over the fence 
in a corner, we found our first birds for the 
afternoon, and some good sport followed. 

“Then we lost Old Frank! I knew he had 
a stand somewhere — but where, was the ques- 
tion. I whistled time after time. We began 
a careful hunt for him, going from one place 
to another where we might expect to find birds 
and the grand old dog on point. It was about 
a quarter of three, and we hadn’t discovered 
him — when it began to snow! I’ve been out 
in lots of snow storms, but never one when 
snow came faster and thicker than that day. 

“After a fruitless search, Jack wanted to 
start home. I told him right then and there 
that I wasn’t going without Old Frank. It 
didn’t make a bit of difference to me what Jack 
did, but I let him know pretty positively what 
I was going to do. Be it said to his credit, he 
stuck with me. He was a good sport, and 
game, but, as he said, he thought it useless to 
wander about in the blinding snow. 

[ 110 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


“But I didn’t think whether or not it 
was useless — I just knew I was going to stay, 
that’s all. Old Frank had never deserted me, 
and this was no time to think of deserting him. 
Jack thought he had probably gotten lost and 
started towards home when the snow came up, 
but I was sure the dog would never leave the 
woods unless he knew that I had gone too, so 
I told Jack I was going to stay and hunt 
around there for Frank, if it took all night. 
That was the very least I could do for a dog 
like that — who, even at that very minute, I 
knew, was busy somehow, somewhere, with 
quail ! 

“About three-thirty, Jack discovered that 
he had badly frosted one of his feet. I had 
the worst time in the world getting him to a 
farm house about three miles away, where, 
after a bit, I left him while I went back to the 
woods to continue the hunt for the best old 
side partner I ever had. 

“And this time I found him! But it was 
only by the merest luck. By the time I got 
back to the woods it was nearly six o’clock. 
The only reason I could even see at all was on 
account of the snow, which made it lighter. 
As I was stumbling along, coming into the 
[ 111 ] 


OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


woods in the opposite direction from that by 
which we had entered, all of a sudden I flushed 
a quail! 

“Naturally, then, I stopped and looked 
around — it was too dark even to think of 
shooting. But as I looked towards where the 
bird had risen, I saw the greatest bird dog 
*that ever lived, still holding point! I ran 
to him — and as I did so another quail went 
out. Then Old Frank whined, sort of low and 
faint — but it meant that the bird that just 
flew out had been the last one — and that the 
job was done. 

“And the job was done, too, boys — for 
Old Frank. He had stuck to that point all 
afternoon — all through that snow — all the 
while we had been looking for him — while I 
had been taking Jack to the farmer’s and com- 
ing back myself — through the cold and the 
sleet and the wind and the ice — he had held 
the point, true as the warrior that he was, the 
grandest, gamest, noblest of his breed that I 
have ever known.” 

All of us became strangely silent as the 
story ended. 

Behind us lurked the dark shadows of the 
gently whispering forest; our camp-fire crack- 
[ 112 ] 





OLD FRANK’S LAST POINT 


led gaily; but we continued to sit mutely 
contemplating the wonders of things unseen. 
And with the morrow came again the return 
to the daily grind. But the memory of 
Clifford’s story was to remain with us — evi- 
dence of a certain something of faith, faith- 
fulness and fortitude which the Creator seems 
to have chosen most truly to make manifest 
through that one of His four-footed creatures 
which has ever been proved men’s truest 
friend. 


[ 114 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 



V. 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 

ANDY MCDONALD 
had been our profes- 
sional at the Gross- 
mere Country Club for 
two years. When he 
came to us he brought 
with him his dog 
Bruce, a Clumber 
Spaniel. 

Bruce must have 
n more than ten or 
eleven years old even at 
that time; he was so old that he soon became 
almost blind. Once having established him- 
self in his new quarters at the golf shop, he 
seldom left the place, and I don’t recall ever 
having gone in for my clubs that he was not 
there, lying on his pillow behind the door. 

He was too old to be good for anything, if 
in fact he ever had been, but it was evident 
from the care and attention Sandy bestowed 
[117] 



SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


on him that his master held for him a most 
unusual affection. 1 ‘Watch out, gentlemen, be 
careful of Bruce there,” had been the solicitous 
warning to many of us golfers as we had gone 
into the shop for our clubs or to interview 
Sandy. 

One day when I went out with three other 
fellows to play in a foursome, Sandy was not 
there — nor was Bruce. And we did not learn 
the cause until after we had finished our match 
and adjourned to the proverbial “nineteenth 
hole” to hold the usual post mortem of a golf 
game. 

“Where’s Sandy to-day?” I asked of the 
boy who served us. 

“His oY dog died, sir, an’ Sandy laid off. 
You should ’ave seen the way he carried on 
’round here this morning. A fellow wouldn’t 
think Sandy could feel so bad ’bout anythin’ 
as he did ’bout that dog.” 

“I asked Sandy once what the dog was 
good for besides sleeping,” said Jim Stone, 
“and I got such a crusty reply that I never 
mentioned the beast to him again in any man- 
ner, shape, or form.” 

“What else could you expect in the cir- 
cumstances?” I asked. “No man likes to have 
[ 118 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


fun made of his dog. I never tried, but I be- 
lieve, if asked in the right way, that Sandy 
would be glad to tell about Bruce. In fact, I’m 
going to try it — for Sandy’s love for that dog 
was so far above the ordinary that I’ve an idea 
there must be some special reason for it.” 

”1 wish you luck,” Jim said. "I’m sure 
I wouldn’t mention the cur to him again for 
a hundred dollars.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you all about it some time, 
after I’ve seen Sandy,” was my only reply as 
I sipped my lemonade. 

“A box of balls you don’t get any satis- 
faction,” Jim remarked with a smile. 

“Taken,” I answered, “and you other fel- 
lows to be the judges.” 

“Agreed,” said Jim. “We’ll settle it right 
here next Saturday — I believe we’re going to 

play the same foursome.” 

****** 

Before my wager with Jim, I had never 
had more than a mild curiosity regarding 
Sandy’s dog; now, however, it was different 
— in fact, I became so possessed with the de- 
sire that on Wednesday I telephoned Sandy 
and made an engagement with him for Thurs- 
day morning. An odd time for a business man 
[ 119 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


to be taking a golf lesson, but I figured we 
might eat lunch together at the club, which 
would be a fine chance for me to hear all about 
Bruce. 

I paved the way while we were in the golf 
shop just before lunch, by inquiring: 

“So you lost poor old Bruce, didn’t you? 
Awfully sorry to hear it. What kind of dog 
was he, Sandy?” 

For a minute or so I doubted what his an- 
swer was going to be. I could see that he was 
regarding me very carefully to decide whether 
or not I was serious. I was — and Sandy so 
decided. 

“I haven’t ever said much about Bruce 
around here,” he began, “for I knew most of 
the men didn’t even know about him, and the 
way some of them felt I never cared to tell 
them.” 

“I’m fond of dogs, Sandy, and I’d truly 
like to hear the story of Bruce — if you care 
to tell me.” 

He looked at me thoughtfully again — 
then: “I believe you, Mr. Welty, and I’ll tell 
it to you. He was a wonderful dog, sir.” 

“Fine, Sandy. Let’s go in and get lunch, 
and you can tell me then.” 

[120] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


“Good,” he agreed — and this is the story 
he told me a few minutes later: 

“Bruce was a full-blooded Clumber Span- 
iel, Mr. Welty, though he’d gotten so old and 
coarse that you might not have realized it. I 
got him in the old country when he was just 
a wee bit of a pup. He was extra well bred, 
his sire having been one of England’s greatest 
champions. Bruce was given to me by a man 
who was always grateful that I taught him 
how to make a real mashie pitch to the hole. 
He was one of the hardest to teach I ever saw, 
but finally the knack of it just came to him, 
and after that his approach was about his best 
shot. 

“When I first got Bruce he was that small 
I could put him in my pocket. He was the 
cutest mite of a pup you ever saw — and his 
favorite plaything was a golf ball. He was 
raised playing with golf balls, and he’d roll 
them around on the floor by the hour without 
getting tired of it. His favorite stunt was to 
bat the ball with his paw, or shove it with his 
nose, and then chase it. 

“After he got bigger I taught him to go 
get a ball when I’d throw it and bring it back 
to me. He learned to do this so well, and liked 
[ 121 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


it so well, that after a while I got so I’d drive 
old balls out into the rough with a golf club 
and send Bruce for them. He got so good at 
this that he mighty seldom ever lost a ball — 
in fact, I might say he never did.” 

“A pretty convenient sort of dog to have, 
I should say, Sandy.” 

“I guess you’ll say so by the time you’ve 
heard more about him,” was Sandy’s reply. 
And then he continued : 

“As Bruce got bigger I had a hard time to 
leave him behind when I went out to play, for 
we were such pals that he wanted to be with 
me all the time ; but I did finally begin taking 
him instead of a caddie when giving lessons, 
and he would fetch the balls back for us. 

“One day he got out of the shop and fol- 
lowed me when I was going out to play, but 
he insisted on chasing the balls and gave me 
so much trouble that I had to have the caddie 
lead him back to the shop and lock him up. 

“But another day soon after that I de- 
cided that, as I’d taught Bruce to fetch a golf 
ball back to me, I could also teach him to let 
them alone when I wanted him to. In at- 
tempting this I had to undo much that I’d 
already done, and it was hard work, with no 
[122] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


indication, for a long time at least, that I 
would be successful. ‘You can’t teach an old 
dog new tricks,’ and Bruce, although not an 
old dog by any means, was nevertheless 
pretty headstrong about changing from his 
earlier teachings and inclinations. 

“I kept at him, however, more determined 
all the time to succeed with him. And I did! 
I might not have been able to do it with most 
dogs, but Bruce was smarter than any other 
dog I ever saw, and he was so fond of me that 
he was anxious to try to please me and do what 
I wanted of him. And once started, we made 
good progress. 

“It took a lot of patience on my part, but 
I finally got him trained. When, as in practice 
or giving lessons, I wanted him to bring the 
ball back to me, I would say, ‘Go fetch, Bruce 
— fetch ball.’ And when I only wanted him 
to go to the ball without touching it, I’d say, 
‘Now stand, Bruce — find ball — stand.’ 

“After a while he got so he knew himself 
what times I wanted him to bring the ball, 
and when I merely wanted him to find it. His 
work and stand on point of a golf ball were 
worthy of the best pointer or setter that I ever 
saw on birds. I even trained him perfectly to 
[ 123 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


‘heel’ when not hunting a lost ball, and also, 
when in a match, never to follow me nearer 
the hole than the edge of the green. Thus he 
was never in the way, or the slightest possible 
bother to my opponents. He became abso- 
lutely perfect on a golf course. I tell you, Mr. 
Welty, there never was another dog like him.” 

“From what you’ve been telling me, Sandy, 
I believe you’re right,” and I was soon to have 
this opinion confirmed, for Sandy went right 
ahead with the story. 

“As his work became more and more per- 
fect, Bruce helped me to win many a match 
where a lost ball would have turned the tide 
against me — and he became known all over 
both England and Scotland. 

“And then, one day before the champion- 
ship at Swathmore, they sent me word that 
Bruce would be barred from the course dur- 
ing the play. Of course I knew that none but 
the caddies or players in your own match are 
allowed to help you find your ball, but I had 
always gotten by on this rule with Bruce by 
claiming that the rule referred to persons and 
had no bearing on dogs. I’d always figured 
that if it ever came to a real showdown I’d 
claim the right to take Bruce along as a fore- 
1 124 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


caddie. But here, now, came notice of a special 
ruling of the committee, made particularly and 
directly just to bar Bruce. 

“This was mighty bad news for me, for I 
was playing that year the best golf I’ve ever 
played, and I thought I had a good chance for 
the championship. But it had become such 
a habit with me to have Bruce along, and I had 
gotten to depend on him so, that I felt I’d be 
lost without him. 

“For a week or more I debated what to do 
— then I hit upon a plan. I wrote to the com- 
mittee and said that I expected to play in the 
tournament and that I would be unaccom- 
panied except by my caddie. 

“Of course they wrote me that this was 
satisfactory and they were glad I felt right 
about it,” and, as he told this, Sandy could not 
hide a quiet smile. His eyes showed merri- 
ment as he recalled the event. But I said not 
a word to interrupt the story. 

“I didn’t get to Swathmore until the open- 
ing day of the tournament, as I didn’t want 
the committee to have time to make any more 
moves against me. But of course, when I did 
arrive and they saw Bruce, there was a howl 
went up. 


[ 125 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


“ ‘Didn’t you understand that you weren’t 
to bring that dog?’ they asked. 

“ ‘No, I didn’t understand that,’ I told 
them. 

“ ‘We thought we wrote you,’ they said. 

“ ‘You wrote me that Bruce couldn’t go 
along with me during play, as he’s been doing 
— that you’d ruled he’d have to be considered 
same as anyone else on the outside and not al- 
lowed to go along and help my caddie find my 
balls.’ 

“ ‘Well, isn’t that plain enough?’ they 
wanted to know. 

“ ‘Yes,’ I told them, ‘but he's to be my cad- 
die — the only one I’ll have — and you wrote 
me I’d be entitled to one caddie same as any- 
one else. Well, he’s my caddie, that’s all.’ 

“You see, Mr. Welty, I’d kinda outplayed 
’em in a way they hadn’t looked for. Any 
player is allowed to have a caddie, and there’s 
nothing in the rules that says whether he must 
be man, boy, or beast. I realized that they 
could keep me from having Bruce go along as 
he’d been doing when I had a caddie too; but 
if I didn’t take any other caddie along — that 
was different. I had them up a tree, and they 
knew it. They tried to figure up some way 
[ 126 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


to rule Bruce out, but after bit they gave 
it up.” 

“I guess you were right about that point, 
too, Sandy,” I said, “I can see how they could 
rule Bruce from the course during play, as a 
dog — but as your one and only caddie, you 
had them, didn’t you?” 

“Sure,” answered Sandy, “and here’s the 
point: Bruce was worth any ten caddies at 
finding the ball, and that might mean more 
to me in a match than having some kid carry 
my clubs. Just one lost ball might lose a match 
— that’s how I figured. And that’s the way 
it would have turned out. I’ll tell you about 
the match for the championship and the part 
Bruce played in it, then I’ll have to go back 
to the shop and get ready to give another les- 
son. Old Bruce helped me win a lot of 
matches in his day, but I’ll only have time to 
tell you about the one — for to-day, at 
least.” 

“Go ahead, Sandy, and by then I’ll have to 
be getting back to the office, too. Press the 
button there and we’ll have the boy bring us 
another pot of coffee while you’re telling the 
rest.” 

“The night before the finals, at the Swath- 
[ 127 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


more Club,” continued Sandy, “there was con- 
siderable speculation on the match to be 
played next day. Much interest was added 
from the fact that a dog, for the first time in 
the history of golf, was to be the official caddie 
in a championship. You see, Mr. Welty, I had 
played through to the finals. There was more 
interest than is common even in champion- 
ships — due, you understand, largely to Bruce 
— and the betting ran high. 

“I guess you must realize that I loved 
Bruce just like he was human — and he did 
me, too. He seemed to feel, that night, the 
importance of what was coming off for us both 
next day, and he hardly wanted to eat when 
I brought him his supper, and he just kept 
right at my heels and looking up at me much 
as to say it would be all right and not to worry. 
He did a lot to help me keep my nerve. I tell 
you, Mr. Welty, there didn’t any of you 
’round here ever realize what a dog Bruce was. 
If you could only have seen him when he was 
young! 

“I was going to go to bed early, so as to be 
fit next day to play and carry the clubs for 
thirty-six holes, but I left Bruce in my room 
and went out to get a cigar. This happened 
[128] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


just when there was considerable money being 
placed on the game. One young fellow asked 
sarcastically what I’d take for my dog. 

“ ‘He ain’t for sale,’ I told him, ‘but he’s 
worth more than you’d pay for him.’ 

“Of course he didn’t like that very much, 
the way I said it, and he came back at me 
pretty strong. One thing led to another, and 
before long we were both talking pretty stiff 
language. It got personal, and he said I 
didn’t have a chance to win anyhow, dog or 
no dog. 

“ ‘For how much?’ I asked him. 

“ ‘Oh, say fifty dollars,’ he said. 

“I was kinda mad anyhow, so I answered, 
‘Better make it a hundred.’ 

“And that’s where I got in hot water. The 
young shrimp had more money than brains. 

“ ‘So you really want to bet, I see,’ he said. 
‘Then let’s make it a thousand.’ 

“Now, that was more money than I could 
afford to bet, as you may well imagine, Mr. 
Welty. In fact, it was all the money I had in 
the world. But I *was mad all through — so 
mad that I lost my head, and I said to him, 
‘All right, we’ll make it an even thousand.’ 

“It took me a long time to get to sleep that 
[129] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


night. What if I should lose — and I knew 
that, on dope, I stood more chance to lose than 
to win. Anderson was an older player than I, 
with more match experience; and besides 
that, he was already the Champion. What if 
I lost my thousand dollars! I had enough at 
stake to play for, without the money end of it 
that I had gotten myself into. I just couldn’t 
sleep, even though I knew that I ought to, to 
be in fit shape the next day. I tossed and 
tossed. Then I called Bruce from his pillow 
in the corner, right into bed with me. He 
curled up close, and I put my arm around him. 
Something in his presence gave me comfort 
and assurance — and rest. By being near me 
he seemed to make me feel it would be all right 
— and I finally fell asleep. 

“When I awoke the next morning, Bruce 
had not moved. He licked my hand when I 
petted him and he saw that I was awake. As 
soon as I was ready to get up, I went straight 
to the showers — and let the water come cold. 
Then I felt almost as fit as if I’d had a better 
night’s sleep. 

“After breakfast I sat down and tried to 
read, to get my mind off the game. But it was 
a hard job. I determined that I must conquer 
[ 130 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


my shaky nerves. What if I lost? Then I 
tried to console myself with the thought that 
that was the worst I could do — and what of it ! 
Mine wasn’t the only money in the world. Of 
course it would be hard for a while, but what 
of that? 

'This was the way I made myself figure it 
out, and it helped me a lot. By the time we 
were ready to tee up for the morning round, I 
was in the right mood to play good golf. The 
actual fact of losing couldn’t possibly upset me 
more than I had been the night before, just 
in anticipation — so I had already gone 
through the worst, which nothing more could 
equal. And the assurance coming with that 
thought was cool and refreshing. 

“I couldn’t seem to get to hitting them the 
first nine, but even at that was only two down. 
This gaye me confidence, and coming in, I 
evened up the match. In fact, I was one up 
going to the eighteenth hole, but lost that. 

"It was just the kind of hole I like, how- 
ever, and I made a vow to myself that I 
wouldn’t lose that last hole in the afternoon. 
It was about four hundred and fifty yards, 
straight away across a ravine with a necessary 
carry on the drive of more than a hundred and 
[ 131 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


sixty yards, if you would even hope to reach 
the fairway for a good lie. To the right there 
was trouble, but to the left it was infinitely 
worse — in fact, a hooked ball would be next 
to impossible to play. The green was in an 
open space, surrounded by trees on the right, 
left and behind. The ground sloped off to the 
left into a gully. The hope of success lay in 
a straight ball on your second shot with your 
brassie or iron. I lost the hole by slicing just 
enough to get in among the trees to the right, 
and it cost me a stroke coming out. Ander- 
son had reached the edge of the green with 
his second and played an easy four to beat 
my five. 

“ ‘That’s one hole I won’t lose this after- 
noon,’ I promised myself, for, as I’ve said, it 
was really the kind of hole I like to play.” 

“Well, did you lose it in the afternoon?” 
I ventured to ask. 

“I’m going to tell you about it,” he an- 
swered. “The fact that I had broken even at 
the turn gave me confidence, and by the time 
we had finished lunch all my nervousness had 
left. I seemed to forget about the bet, in my 
interest in the match. Something made me 
think it was going to be my day. I felt that I 
[ 132 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


could win, and you know how much that 
means in golf. 

“Well, in the afternoon we were followed 
by the largest gallery I’ve ever played to. And 
it was some match, Mr. Welty. Confident as 
I was, Anderson must have been equally so, 
for it was nip and tuck all the way. We were 
all even at the twenty-seventh, and then 
halved the next six holes in succession. 

“I didn’t lose my nerve until the thirty- 
fourth, which I lost, making me one down and 
two to play. Then, had Anderson played care- 
fully and safe, it would have been all over for 
me. But he got over-confident and tried to 
beat me on the thirty-fifth with a win, instead 
of being satisfied with a halve. Anyhow, he 
pressed his tee shot — and dubbed it into a 
bad lie. 

“Had he gotten a good drive, Mr. Welty, I 
know he’d have had my nerve. But when 
he dubbed his drive, for the first time in the 
match, it just put me right back on my feet — 
and I won that hole easily, going all even to 
the thirty-sixth. And that’s the hole I was 
telling you about. 

“We both got good drives, but I had about 
fifteen yards the advantage. Anderson was 
[ 133 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


short on his second, and I tried to reach the 
green with my spoon. I not only overplayed, 
but pulled it — the worst thing I could have 
done on that hole. The last we saw of the ball 
was when it hit a tree — and none of us could 
tell which way it glanced. It looked like a lost 
hole — and match — for me all right, for even 
if Bruce could find it, there was that impossible 
gully just where the ball struck the tree. An- 
derson, of course, laid his third well up to the 
hole, but not close enough to be dead for a sure 
four. But where was I in two! That was the 
big question. 

“Bruce worked in the gully for that ball 
as he never had done before. He seemed to 
realize how much was at stake, and he fairly 
swept the ground clean. But we couldn’t find 
the ball! It was almost hopeless in such a 
place to expect to find it — more so to play it 
afterwards. Almost four minutes were gone, 
and I decided that the ball was not in the 
gully. But where, then? None of us had seen 
the direction it had taken off the tree. I called 
Bruce in and gave him the command: 'Range, 
boy — range.’ That meant that he was to 
work in a circle and cover as much ground as 
possible. And he fairly flew, Mr. Welty. 

[ 134 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


You’d have given a hundred dollars just to 
have seen him. 

“ ‘The five minutes is — ’ 

“ ‘Wait!’ I called, before the sentence could 
be completed. ‘My caddie has the ball.’ 

“Bruce had just whined — and he was 
standing on point. We went to him — and 
there was my ball sure enough, just on the 
edge of the rough to the right, and not a bad 
lie at that, and a clear shot for the hole. You 
see, the ball had glanced off the tree to the 
right, instead of to the left into the gully, as 
we had naturally supposed. But if it hadn’t 
been for Bruce it’d have been a lost ball for 
good, for it would never have occurred to us 
to look where he found it, and it’d have cost 
me both the match and my bet.” 



[ 135 ] 


SANDY’S GOLF DOG 


“You won then, eh?” I asked, as the boy 
handed me our lunch ticket to sign. 

“Oh, yes — it was easy to lay my third shot 
dead for a four; and Anderson missed his 
putt.” 

I looked at Sandy and could see in his 
eyes the faintest suggestion of a moisture that 
he could not hide, as his mind went back to 
that day, and to the wonderful performance 
of his devoted dog. 

“I grabbed Bruce up in my arms, Mr. 
Welty, and hugged him right there before 
everyone. It was he — not I — who had saved 
the match, and won for me a thousand dollars! 
Do you wonder, now, why I feel as I always 
have about Bruce?” 

“No — I should say not, Sandy,” and I 
was conscious of a strong pull on my own 
heartstrings, as I saw how deeply the Scotch- 
man felt. 

And later, when I told this story to the 
crowd on Saturday, as nearly as possible as 
Sandy had told it to me, they all agreed — and 
Jim himself freely admitted — that he owed 
me a box of balls. 


[ 136 ] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 






* 








■ 




























- 









































VI. 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 

I HAVE not seen Gordon for many years — 
but way back, when we were boys of 
twelve, he and I were the closest of chums. 
He was the third of a family of eight — which 
statement will be sufficient proof that often 
our best-laid plans fell through owing to 
Gordon's being detained at home with his 
various duties. To him was assigned, by a 
wise but semi-stern parent, the mowing of the 
lawn, tending the garden, and among other 
things, in its season, the care of the furnace. 
Nevertheless, when these duties were not too 
heavy — and I fear even sometimes when they 
were — we managed to have our full share of 
youthful fun and frolic. And a better friend 
than Gordon never lived. 

Just where he got Sport, or exactly when, 
I do not now recall. But that doesn't matter. 
It is enough to say that every boy in our 
neighborhood was Sport’s friend, and he theirs. 
No dog of that day was more their hero — 
[ 139 ] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


except, of course, my own dog, Old Frank. 
And he and Sport were pals — the same as 
were their masters. 

Each of us had his own little wagon and 
harness, and, whether as a team or singly, 
Sport and Frank would certainly have been a 
match for the best-trained sledge dogs of the 
North. Sport was faster than Frank, but the 
latter was steadier. Once, however, when we 
were driving them double, I recall that Old 
Frank’s dependability was not sufficient to 
prevent a catastrophe. A stray cat suddenly 
crossed our path — and when, finally, after a 
wild run, we were able to get ourselves, the 
wagon and the discouragingly entangled dogs 
out of the ditch in which they landed us, we 
were a sorry looking mess. 

Well do I remember the day when Gordon 
first called my attention to a tiny tuft of 
reddish brown on Sport’s neck — for it was from 
that day that I coveted him for my own. Not 
that Sport, or any other dog, could ever take 
Old Frank’s place in my heart — but I just 
wanted him. 

“See that!” and Gordon pulled up the 
hair on Sport’s neck showing the one spot, 
[ 140 ] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


except his white chest, where the dog was not 
pure black. 

“What d’you mean?” I asked, not catch- 
ing the drift of my friend’s exclamation. 

“Don’t you know what it means!” 

“No, I’m ’fraid I don’t,” I answered, 
very much ashamed of my ignorance. In 
fact, I was not even quite aware of just what 
it was to which Gordon was trying to call my 
attention — so tiny was that single tuft of 
reddish brown. 

“Wolf!” was the laconic reply. “Stupid — 
can’t you see that Sport’s part wolf?” 

Very intently then — for what boy would 
not! — I bent over the big dog’s neck and 
wonderingly fingered that one tiny spot of 
brown. 

“But I thought he was Collie or Shepherd 
or part Newfoundland,” I said, yet with a 
feeling of awe creeping over me the while. 

“Sure — that’s what he is,” Gordon agreed 
— “but you can see for yourself he’s part 
wolf too.” 

“Yes, I guess that’s right,” I had to 
acknowledge, for unquestionably that spot 
on his neck proved it. And from that moment 
[141] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


I experienced a continuous and continual 
yearning to possess Sport for my very own. 
Up to that time I had been well content with 
Gordon’s ownership, and that meant, of 
course, that I saw almost as much of Sport 
as if he had been my own property. 

Sport’s disposition contained many strange 
freaks of character. You always knew just 
what to expect from Old Frank. Not so with 
Sport. While he fully recognized Gordon’s 
authority as master, when we were together, 
yet that authority ceased to exist when 
Gordon would be detained at home while the 
rest of us boys were running wild and free. 
Many were the times when, on going up for 
my chum and finding he could not leave the 
house, I would whistle for Sport from the 
next block — and invariably he answered the 
summons. No fence ever proved too high for 
him, or rope too strong, when the black dog 
heard that shrill whistle from between my 
fingers. I can see Gordon yet, when, on these 
occasions, he would command and shout at 
Sport, and finally plead with him — all to no 
avail. Invariably the big dog would negotiate 
that high fence and come to where the fun was. 
How Gordon would stamp his feet and wave 
. [ 142 ] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


his arms in a vain endeavor to turn him back! 
Always, then, Gordon would be frantically 
angry at both the dog and me — for perhaps 
an hour or two. Never more than that. 

And thus it was, always with our dogs, we 
filled in our time when out of school in those 
good old days of long ago. I love to look back 
on it all even now. Those were the days! 

There was a little crowd of us boys who, 
from the first signs of summer, made regular 
daily journeys to our old swimming hole. 
I can see us yet — carefree youngsters, with no 
thoughts in the world but the fun of the 
moment. 

And what a wonderful swimming hole that 
was! The sand was soft, and the bank rose 
straight from the water to a height of about 
five feet. This afforded splendid diving. The 
woods opened up and thinned out near the 
water’s edge so that we could get a good run 
for it — and I remember how velvety soft was 
the grass, so that it was easy underfoot. 

Water tag was our great game. The one 
who was counted “It” would wait until the 
others had each made his dive into the river — 
then the chase began. So proficient did we 
become at swimming under water that the 
[ 143 ] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


fellow who was “It” would usually wait until 
the heads began to appear above the surface, 
then he would dive for the nearest one in the 
hope of tagging him before he could disappear 
again. Sometimes the first head would pop 
up straight out half way across the river; 
sometimes up stream and sometimes down; 
sometimes right in close to the bank again 
behind one of the many clumps of bushes that 
offered such splendid hiding places. Even to 
hope to catch one of these water urchins was 
no mean task. We were regular fishes. Half 
the time we would be under water — often 
crawling along the bottom, or holding our- 
selves down by gripping large stones or weeds. 

One day Gordon took a dive before we 
came to the swimming hole. Furthermore, 
he took it with all his clothes on. This was 
the way of it. 

Sport and Old Frank always went with us 
— never failed. About half way out we had to 
cross the dam and the gates to the hydraulic — 
these being pretty high up. We developed the 
habit of making the dogs jump into the water 
of the hydraulic from the top of the gates. 
At first they were very reluctant, and we had 
to push them in. Finally they saw resistance 
[144] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


was of no use in the face of our persistence and 
they became resigned to their fate. Usually, 
then, they would jump in almost without 
urging as soon as we came to the regular place. 

One day Sport refused. In spite of Gordon’s 
cries and shouts, commands and pleadings — 
he still refused. Gordon was a hot-headed 
boy. He stormed and he fumed. All to no 
avail. Sport would not budge. Finally 
Gordon reached out and grabbed him by the 
neck to pull him in. And then the tug of war 
began. Sport braced himself and pulled back. 
Gordon did the same. Neither could move 
the other an inch. Sport simply had de- 
termined in his canine mind that that day he 
would not dive. No less determined was his 
master. 

But Gordon had gone about the thing 
wrong end to. His back was to the water and 
he was trying to pull Sport towards it. Sport 
was faced towards the water, but was pulling 
away from it. My, but how dog and boy did 
pull against each other for a few minutes! 

“Drag ’im in, Gord,” we shouted en- 
couragement. 

“Someone push ’im from behind,’’ Gordon 
panted. 


[ 145 ] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


And then something happened. The min- 
ute Sport felt that shove from behind — he 
gave up the contest. But he gave it up too 
suddenly for Gordon to be able to jump aside. 
Sport should have given some sort of warning. 
But he did not. With one tremendous wolf- 
like leap he sprang forward. Crouched back 
as he was — he was all set for it. 

Oh, can I ever forget it! Dive, did I say? 
No, that doesn’t describe it at all. With his 
back to the hydraulic, Gordon was on the very 
edge — when Sport struck him fairly between 
the legs, and over they went together. It was 
fully thirty-five feet from the top of the gates 
to the water — and all the way down Gordon 
looked as though he were riding Sport horse- 
back. But he was still wrong end to, don’t 
you see, so that he was faced toward us. 

And what an expression that boy’s face 
wore! Gordon looked as if someone had 
called him and he couldn’t come. Frantically 
he waved his arms. Vainly he shouted in wild 
anger. The big black dog was still between 
his legs — and Gordon was riding him hard — 
when they struck the water. Not until they 
were submerged did they become separated. 

[ 146 ] 



Gordon looked as though he were riding Sport horseback. 
But he was still wrong end to. 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


I doubt, though, if Gordon at any time went 
clear under, for long before Sport again 
appeared Gordon was making fast headway 
towards the shore. You see, he now was 
faced in exactly the right direction. He 
didn’t have to turn around to swim back. 

“Your cap’s back there floating down 
stream, Gord,’’ we told him — but not until he 
had landed. You know how boys are. 

“Go fetch it, Sport,’’ he commanded — 
pointing to the missing “lid.” 

But Sport did not appear to hear. There 
was nothing else to do, so Gordon ran down 
the bank and again took to the water. He 
did not dare go home without that cap. 

I think it must have been the teasing we 
gave him that made him so cross, for his 
clothes, spread out in the hot sun, soon dried 
while we were in swimming. Anyhow, Gordon 
said to me: 

“You’ve been begging to own that fool 
dog, an’ now if you want him you can take 
him — blamed if ever I want to see him again.” 

“You’re on,” I said — “sold; he’s mine.” 

And that was how I came to own Sport. 
I think it was twenty cents in cash, an old 
[ 148 ] 


HOW I BOUGHT SPORT 


coin, a few stamps, a bag of marbles, and a 
* 'nigger shooter” — that was the price that I 
had to pay. 

Of course it wasn’t long before Gordon was 
trying to buy him back at double the price. 
But I wouldn’t sell. 


[ 149 ] 































































» 












JIM’S HOUND 























VII. 



I LIVE just about a mile from town, and 
for some time it has been almost a custom 
with me to stop in every evening at the 
Sunshine Road House for a sandwich and glass 
of milk before bed. 

The Sunshine Road House is a most 
respectable place — where you can get the best 
chicken dinners in the world — frogs' legs 
thrown in. The place is run by a Frenchman. 

This Frenchman is a very interesting fel- 
low, so I enjoy making my stay as long as 
possible — especially when his business is quiet 
and we get to talking. 

Night before last, as I was about to leave, 
in came two fellows who had just driven up 
in a buggy. 


[153] 



JIM’S HOUND 


They were inclined to be talkative, and I 
thought gave promise of being amusing, so I 
dropped into a chair and picked up a news- 
paper, to give the appearance of doing some- 
thing besides overhearing their conversation. 

I soon saw that the smaller one of the two 
was inclined to make sport of his friend about 
something that seemed to amuse them both 
greatly, the little fellow in particular. So I 
decided to try to learn what the fun was about. 

I hadn’t long to wait, for the little fellow 
evidently wanted to vex his companion doubly 
by letting some one else in on the joke. He 
asked the Inn Keeper: “You haven’t seen a 
hound wanderin’ loose anywheres ’round here, 
have you?” 

“Well, I can’t say as I have. What kind 
of a hound was it?” asked the proprietor. 

“Oh, just a reg’lar hound, I suppose you’d 
call him,” said the fellow. “One of them black 
an’ tan dogs like you see most anywheres — 
not so very long ears — but I guess he really 
was a hound, all right.” 

At the last remark the bigger fellow 
seemed to be getting a little “peeved,” and he 
showed it. But his companion kept right on. 
“You see it was this way” — and, on glancing 
[154] 


JIM’S HOUND 


up from the paper, I noticed that he was look- 
ing towards me in a way that showed he was 
anxious for me to hear the story as well as the 
Frenchman. 

“Oh, cut it, Bill,” interposed the other. 

“Now, Jim, don’t be mean — these two 
men here want to hear ’bout the hound. 
Why, one of them might have seen him.” 
Then he continued: “Fact is, you see, Jim’s 
lost his hound. Him and me went huntin’ four 
months ago. Went after quail. Took along 
two of the best bird dogs in the country here. 
We went on up north about two hundred mile 
right into the best quail country in this state, 
or any state, for that matter. Struck good 
luck right from the first, lots of unbroken 
covies, and the dogs was findin’ ’em. And we 
was hittin’ ’em too — and while I was gettin’ 
some more than Jim was, we was both doin’ 
pretty good. Then right in the midst of the 
best shootin’ was when Jim got on to that 
hound business!” 

“Come on, Bill, let’s be goin’ — don’t be a 
botherin’ these men with somethin’ they don’t 
care nothin’ about. Let’s be gettin’ back to 
town.” 

But it was evident the little chap was not 
[ 155 ] 


JIM’S HOUND 


of the same mind — and he guessed right in 
supposing that the Frenchman and I would be 
good listeners. So he kept right on: “You 
see, all the fellows up around there had been 
a tellin’ Jim all about this hound for some few 
days, but at first he didn’t seem to pay much 
attention to it. Then all of a sudden he took on 
a lot of interest in the dog they was tellin’ him 
about — and from the day that they took Jim 
out fox huntin’ it was all off. No more quails 
for him. Of course they didn’t get any foxes 
that day they took Jim out — or even see any, 
so far as I can find out — but fox huntin’ was 
all Jim would talk from then on.” 

Jim made one more effort to get Bill 
stopped, but it was no use, so he just seemed 
to give it up. 

Bill again took up his narrative: “Then 
come the day Jim found he might be able to 
buy the hound — the fellow who told him 
wasn’t at all sure — but it was worth tryin’, 
anyhow. And maybe you think Jim didn’t do 
the tryin’. It was pitiful to hear him pleadin’ 
with the fellow who owned that hound. And 
it would have made you sad to hear how that 
guy hated to part with the dog. ‘Greatest dog 
in seven states,’ he said. ‘And such a kind of 
[ 156 ] 


JIM’S HOUND 


a “family” dog too. Why’, he told Jim, ‘that 
hound’s earned me most forty dollars since I 
had him, winnin’ drag chases — wins the chase 
every year at the county fair. But,’ he says 
to Jim, ‘how much was you countin’ on givin’?’ 
Well, now, much as Jim wanted that dog, no 
one can’t never say Jim ever let sentiment in- 
terfere with strict business dealin’s.” 

At this Jim turned about a shade lighter 
than the color of an old time English soldier’s 
coat — although he tried to act as if he didn’t 
notice what his friend said. 

‘‘So Jim offers him ten dollars for the 
hound,” continued Bill. “And they finally 
come to terms at fifteen. Then Jim come right 
to me to loan him the fifteen dollars. But I 
didn’t have it to spare — and I wish you’d a 
seen him. You’d a thought the future of 
America depended on that hound. All I would 
let him have was five dollars, and all he could 
spare himself was five more ; and that left five 
dollars still to be raised. Then an idea hit Jim 
— he sold all his remainin’ shells to the little 
general store in the town for three dollars and 
fifty cents, leavin’ still one dollar and fifty 
cents to be raised. Of course Jim had to quit 
huntin’ quail when he sold all the shells for his 
[157] 


JIM’S HOUND 


gun, so he went to work helpin’ a farmer close 
by, for a dollar and fifty cents a day. He 
worked one day and that give him enough to 
buy the hound. 

“And then Jim went back to huntin’ again 
— but not quail. He started to run rabbits 
with his new dog. He was sure some rabbit 
dog. Not as how he ever ketched one, as I ever 
seen — though I heard a lot about what he 
could do — and he sure did make a heap of 
noise while he was doing his runnin’. 

“One day when I was out after quail, I 
seen a straw pile movin’ around as^though 
somethin’ was goin’ on inside of it. It sorta 
made me nervous at first, but rememberin’ 
that I had a gun in my hands, I went on over 
towards the movin’ stack. Seemed as though it 
begun to move even more restless like as I 
come nearer, and this didn’t help none to make 
me feel more comfortable. Still I kept on goin’ 
towards it. And pretty soon right out of the 
middle of that straw pile comes Jim, a thro win’ 
his arms around and a hollerin’ to beat the 
band. And next out comes the hound, and he 
no sooner come clear of the pile than he set 
up that moanin’ howl of his and started down 
the field. 


[158] 


JIM’S HOUND 


“ ‘Which way did he go?’ shouts Jim. 

“ ‘Which way did what go?’ says I. 

“ ‘The rabbit,’ cried Jim. 

“ ‘Didn’t see him,’ says I.” 

Jim could not help laughing himself as Bill 
recounted this adventure. 

“Did the hound catch the rabbit?” I in- 
quired, by way of making conversation, and 
also to show an interest, so that we might be 
treated to more of Bill’s story. But he ignored 
my inquiry. 

“Well,” he continued, “it wasn’t long be-, 
fore we had to come home. And say, when 
Jim walked up the main street of Harrisville 
with that new dog of his, I wish you could ’ave 
heard just some of the things he told about 
what that dog had done. What they had told 
Jim was pretty bad — but none of it was any 
match for the things Jim himself was tellin’ 
before he’d owned the dog quite a week. 

“Jim never let him loose around the yard 
unless he was with him. Kept him tied up all 
the time, and the dog didn’t seem to like it 
very much. He showed he was gettin’ kinda 
restless. 

“The Saturday after we got home, we went 
out here to Inglass Prairie to shoot snipe — 
[ 159 ] 


JIM’S HOUND 


and nothin’ would do but the hound must go 
along. Jim bein’ bigger’n me, the hound did 
come along, too. Well, I got into some good 
shootin’, baggin’ several snipe — but Jim and 
his hound spent the day runnin’ around after 
rabbits. We was separated most of Idle time, 
but finally I come across Jim cussin’ a blue 
streak all to himself. 'What’s the matter?’ I 
asked him. 

“ 'Seen Buck?’ says he — Buck was the 
name of the hound. 

" 'No, I ain’t,’ I told him. 'Where is he?’ 

" 'He’s runnin’ a rabbit somewheres,’ says 
Jim. 

"Nothin’ to do for me but to stay right 
there an’ try to console Jim about that darn 
dog. After a while I spied the animal cornin’ 
along seemin’ kinda all tuckered out. Right 
away Jim braced up and begun to take on new 
interest. We started to separate again, but 
hadn’t gone very far, when on the far side of 
the field some other hunters opened up a volley 
on snipe. It sounded like a young war. The 
hound started off in the direction of the 
shootin’ lickety cut. Jim tried to call him 
back, but no use. That dog sure did like to 
hear a gun go off. Jim was all out of sorts with 
[ 160 ] 



The hound turned and seemed to be laughing at him 



JIM’S HOUND 


the hound havin’ been gone so long after that 
last rabbit anyhow, and it made him mad that 
Buck wouldn’t come back when he called him 
now. Finally the critter turned half around 
and, for all the world, he seemed to be givin’ us 
the laugh. That was too much for Jim, and he 
up and lets go at him with both barrels. 
Maybe you think that dog didn’t jump — I bet 
he rose straight up in the air full twenty feet! 
Then off he went as tight as he could cut it. 

“And we ain’t seen him from that day 
to this. We’ve been out every day lookin’ 
for him — but we ain’t heard hide nor hair 
of him — and, bein’ pals, I’ve got to kind of 
stick around.” 

I asked them if they had advertised for the 
dog. “No, we ain’t done that,” Bill said, “but 
Jim did write back to the fellow he bought him 
of to see it he had got back home — a hound’s 
liable to do that, you know. He got a letter 
back, though, claimin’ the dog had never come 
back; so I guess now he’s gone for good. 
Pretty expensive hound, he was — Jim hadn’t 
owned him quite two weeks yet and never got 
nothin’ out of him.” 

The Frenchman spoke up, addressing him- 
self to me: “Weren’t you in here last night 
[ 162 ] 


JIM’S HOUND 


when Hi Smith was telling us about the new 
dog he had just bought the other day while he 
was up hunting? Where was it he said he got 
him?” 

“I think he said it was a little town up- 
state called New Bedford,” I replied. 

“Yes, that’s right,” put in the Frenchman, 
“so it was.” 

Before anything more could be said, Jim 
had grabbed the Inn Keeper by the arm: 
“New Bedford!” he exclaimed. “And do you 
know whether it was a hound? Who did he 
say he bought him of? What did he look 
like?” 

“As to what the dog looks like, I can’t say, 
for I didn’t see him,” said the Frenchman. 
“But, come to think of it, I do believe Hi said 
it was a hound. Anyrate, he told some big 
tales about the dog to the fellows who were 
here; but I didn’t pay much attention.” 

“And who’d he say he bought him of! Did 
he say that?” Jim was excited. 

The Frenchman hesitated, trying to recall. 
Then: “Seems to me as if it was a fellow 
named Haggard — yes, that was it I’m sure, 
Pete Haggard,” he said. 

“That’s your hound , Jim, sure’s I’m alive!” 

[ 163 ] 


JIM’S HOUND 


cried Bill, when he had recovered enough to 
speak, after the surprise he had been accumu- 
lating while the Frenchman was talking. 
“Where does this Hi Smith live?” he finally 
asked as they started for the door. 

“I wonder how often that fellow Haggard 
has sold that same hound?”, I remarked to 
the Frenchman after they had gone. 

“Yes, and me too — yes, I wonder?” Then 
he added, chuckling to himself: “A pretty 
profitable dog, eh — for Haggard, eh? He 
has probably left Hi’s by this time — maybe 
back home already, and all set to be sold 
again.” 


[ 164 ] 
























































































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